


Your Soul in me

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Harry, Feels, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, He's a dark Lord, Hermione is a Good Friend, Love at First Sight, Luna Lovegood is a Good Friend, M/M, Manipulative!Voldemort, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Soul Bond, Soulmates, Top Voldemort (Harry Potter), Voldemort has hair, Voldemort is scared of Death, and a nose, different prophecy, dumbledore tries, kind of, not really - Freeform, what do you expect?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23235403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: That fateful Halloween night, a piece of Voldemort's soul attached itself to the brightest thing it could find, a child, fulfilling a prophecy and cursing the child for life. However, a body can not hold more than one soul. The dark Lord took a part of the most loving soul alive into his own, while replacing it with his own, tainted one.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 46
Kudos: 385





	1. Prologue: Halloween 1981

He stared at the child, this helpless and weak child, and could not help but wonder, how it was supposed to vanquish him. How could this boy defeat him, one of the most powerful wizards in history? It didn't matter, not in the end. He would kill him and eliminate the last thing in his way to power.

The boy's green eyes were wide and staring at him in an almost haunting manner, accusing him of everything he had done, of the death of the couple lying on the floor of their once safe home. As if he knew they were dead. In his mind, the red-haired woman would soon stand up and hug him with a smile, a warm and kind smile. It was the jealousy of that thought that helped Voldemort overlook the child's eyes and the tinge of guilt he might have felt, had he followed the train of thoughts. Power came with a price, a price he was willing to pay. He had never killed a child before, but his own life was worth more to him than that of a stupid boy, whose eyes were so warm. So warm.

When he lifted his wand, the curse was fueled not by rage, but by the fear of death. "Avada Kedavra", words he had said so many times, whispered out in the quiet room. He saw the child laughing at the bright light, reaching towards it with chubby, uncoordinated hands. A small price to pay for his life and power. And yet... And yet.

The curse did not kill the child. It bounced back, knocking the boy backward in his crib, tears streaming down his face, caused by the sudden impact. The green light was blinding when it shot towards Voldemort. For the first time in years, he felt scared, felt like the little boy in the orphanage, being beaten by the other children until he couldn't move anymore. He tried to move, tried to escape his own curse, but it was futile. Surprisingly, his death did not hurt. Voldemort had always imagined the killing curse to be worse than the Cruciatus, but when the light washed over him, there was no pain. There was... nothing. Nothing. No light at the end of a tunnel, no brightness, not even a biblical hell. The quiet and darkness was almost peaceful, that was until the eternity of torture began.

It felt as if he was being ripped apart. He could feel his soul, scattered across the country, pulling him towards every Horcrux, the main piece of his soul was being pulled apart bit by bit. It felt worse than anything he could ever have imagined and it cost him all the strength he had to avert his consciousness from the pain towards his surroundings. Voldemort found himself in the same spot in which he stood only moments ago, looking down at his own body, pale, and still clutching the wand, holding onto magic even in death. The child, still crying in his crib, was surrounded by a bright light, golden and beautiful. Something in him wanted to dive into this pool of gold and lose himself in it.

He reached out, hesitantly, fearing the brightness might burn him, much like the sun. But when he touched the light, emotions overcame him that would have brought tears to his eyes, had he owned a body. Happiness, true happiness something he had rarely felt in his life and another emotion, one he did not recognize. His soul shuddered at the feelings bubbling in the child, the oh so pure child. Was it love that he felt? Was this how it felt like? He wondered why he never felt like that little boy was feeling. Perhaps it was the innocence of the child that allowed it to love so unconditionally, perhaps Voldemort was just too evil to feel happiness on his own.

For the first time in years, there was regret in him. The regret of what he had done to cling to life itself, to the power brought by magic. Maybe he could have been happy like this child, had he not done the things he did. Perhaps... Perhaps.

The pure bliss ended when the pull at his soul got too strong to bear, along with the pain. His splintered soul was yearning to heal itself, but he knew he would not be able to be whole again. He wanted to stay with this happiness, this golden child, did not want to go into the cold world, filled with darkness. Most of all, he did not want to be left alone with his own thoughts, slowly drifting into madness. Voldemort clung to the child, the warmth, the happiness, the love, with all he could, fighting the pain.

The desperate pull of his soul against the boys weak one caused something to happen, that would be deeply regretted and cherished by both Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. The dark and tainted soul of the Dark Lord squeezed it's way into the boy's body, forcing a part of his pure and light soul out of its own body. While Voldemort clung to the love inside the boy, Harry's soul clung to the only familiarity nearby, Voldemort, no matter how brief the encounter might have been. He unbeknownst to him, saved the sanity of a man, who otherwise would have lost it in the long 10 years of being caught with only his own mind as company.

They created a bond that should never have been created between such contrasts. Light and Dark. Life and Death. Yin and Yang. Their souls would forever battle each other and forever complete each other. Neither could live without the other.

When Hagrid came to bring the child to it's closest relatives, he did not notice the faint hint of darkness surrounding the boy, neither did anyone apart from Dumbledore. The old wizard stared at the child in his arms, wondering what had been created in the darkness of Halloween 1981.


	2. Chapter I: It's not me, it's you

Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, grew up without any love in his life. He grew up in a cupboard under a flat of dusty stairs, with spiders as his only company. His family did not talk to him unless they punished him for something he wasn't even sure he did. When the boy cried himself to sleep on the rough mattress, after having been denied food for pushing Dudley in an act of self-defense, he wondered why his aunt and uncle did not treat him the same way as they treated their son. He was too young to understand the abuse he faced day in day out, as it was never physical. His guardians did not lay hand on him and Dudley's actions were shrugged off with a 'boys will be boys'.

And yet, the child under the stairs was emotionally abused by the people who were chosen to protect him, by his very family. He searched for flaws within him, searched for an answer to the question of why he was such a 'freak', whatever that word, filled with hate, meant, when the blame was not with him. Harry was an innocent child, who's confidence and happiness had been wrecked by his childhood. Could the Dursleys sense the air of darkness surrounding their nephew? Could they feel the hate of the piece of someone else's soul in the boy, resonating in them until they mistook the feeling as their own? Perhaps they could have loved the boy, had he been whole, pure. Perhaps... Perhaps.

Although Harry was emotionally neglected and ignored, he never felt alone. He did not have any friends, but he didn't need them. Not when he could feel a presence around him, constantly surveying him, comforting him. He felt protected by the presence, felt wanted, and cared for, as if he was worth something. In his later years, he would describe the presence he felt as his guardian devil, the devil on his shoulder. When the Dursleys screamed at the child, threatening the withdrawal of food as punishment, the boy could feel something inside him yearning to hurt them, to really hurt them, beyond repair.

As a child, he did not recognize the feelings of hate taking over his mind in hot, red flashes, even though he somehow knew, that they weren't his own. Subconsciously Harry always knew that there was someone or something else living within him. In a different family, he might have been sent to a therapist. In a different family, he might not have felt the feelings of hate this strongly. But as it was, Voldemort's soul tainted his own, slowly pulling him down towards the darkness in which the Dark Lord had found his salvation. Similarly to Tom Riddle, Harry Potter might have been lost to the hate and the fear, turning his once bright self towards darkness. And yet, when he was admitted to Hogwarts, he did not have to fight the prejudice of his own house, did not struggle to make friends. Was it really nature that turned the broken boy Tom Riddle into the dark Lord? Or was it nurture? The love Harry Potter received from his friends and environment guided him away from the hate and darkness and towards the light, something Tom Riddle never had.

Harry was not the only one to feel the impacts of a foreign soul. Voldemort had condemned himself to an eternity of pain and suffering, unable to live, unable to die. His thoughts spiraled into madness, into despair. And yet he could cling to the small piece of brightness within him, which radiated love and affection. The boy's soul felt like a gentle caress on his skin, like silk. It felt like a lovers embrace, felt like happiness.

He sometimes saw snippets of another's life through a connection he did not understand, but welcomed. He saw the boy grow up, saw to what life he had condemned the child by making it an orphan. Voldemort saw the boys sadness and fear and felt them like his own. It reminded him of himself, of Tom Riddle, the helpless boy he used to be, and all he wanted to do was help the child, the innocent child that helped him keep his sanity. Was it remorse that he felt when he saw the hunger and felt it through the other's eyes? Was this what he should feel upon killing a human being?

He recalled his first kill, his father, the first person he had actively killed with the green curse. The muggle that had abandoned him and his mother. His father had been so smug, so arrogant, and yet so weak and easy to kill. It had barely been an effort, sending the curse on its way towards the man that gave him life. No, Voldemort decided, he did not regret his actions. That man had deserved death for ignoring the child he had fathered. As he went down the list of deaths he had caused, there was no regret. He had done it for power and his own survival and would not apologize for wanting to live. Perhaps he was not able to feel remorse, after all, Voldemort mused. Perhaps the feelings he had towards the boy were not remorse, but pity, which was an equally unknown feeling to him.

Yes, as he saw the boy, through his own eyes, in the broken mirror of the school bathroom, with a bloody nose and hollow cheeks, he felt pity. A part of him definitely wanted to help this child, to kill those who had hurt him, punched him relentlessly. He wanted them to pay. And as he envisioned the pain he would cause them, the dark lord realized, that those feelings of pity and the urge to help, stemmed from the part in him, that was entwined with Potter's soul. This child did have a rather large effect on him after all. Whether this was good or not was yet to be determined.


	3. A world unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry does not meet Quirrell at the Leaking Cauldron when he goes shopping with Hagrid, everything else goes as in the books.
> 
> Also: There is no sexual feelings between Voldemort and Harry at this point. I don't know if it comes across well enough, but Harry's feelings resemble a childhood crush one might have in primary school, while Voldemort's feelings resemble obsessiveness.  
> Sex will come later ;)

It took years upon years of suffering for Lord Voldemort to finally regain a body, to ease the pain of his soul being ripped apart over and over again. He had clung to sources of life without knowing what or who he was possessing, all of them dying within a couple of hours. Or was it minutes? Track of time had escaped him long ago. The man he finally held onto was weak, but a wizard. He could barely believe his luck when his soul ejected the other's from the body, condemning it to a lifetime of suffering until its body would die, the links to it holding the man named Quirrell in this world. 

Finally, there was something other than pain. Consciousness, thoughts other than survival-pain-pain-darkness-pain, and the feeling of the cool night air made him laugh and cry with joy. He was alive, barely, but alive. Yet the body was dying with every passing second, crumbling under the power and madness of The Dark Lord. The initial feelings faded, leaving the brunet man with determination and two goals.

Voldemort had to regain his body, his own, before this one died.

He had to find the boy, the sun child, the golden child. The child, who's soul had guided him through the darkness and the pain, who had given him love and comfort without knowing. He wished to relish in the boy's soul, losing himself in the bright happiness and love, until nothing of his fear of death remained. Perhaps, he wanted to forget the path of hatred and death he had chosen, once upon a time.

Did he want to forget everything Lord Voldemort stood for? Did he want to become someone different, neither Tom Riddle, the abused and scared boy, nor Lord Voldemort, the mad and vengeful dark lord? He did not know. The only truth he was aware of, was that the boy would give him utter devotion, love, and happiness, feelings unknown to him until Halloween 1981, when he had killed the boy's parents.

When he finally stumbled out of the forest he had been trapped in for what felt like an eternity, he found himself somewhere in Albania, with merely a decade passed since his supposed death. His followers, those who he had trusted, had abandoned him and his cause, betraying their Lord at the first chance they got. O, how he hated them for this, how he wanted to kill and torture these men and women who left him to suffer in this damned forest.

But the child... his child. He had to find the boy before he would inflict suffering on everyone who dared to betray him.

And so Voldemort enrolled into Hogwarts, the only place he ever considered as his home, as the teacher for Defense against the Dark Arts. Was this what could have been, had Dumbledore not rejected his application? He glimpsed at a life that could have been and could not help but wonder.

_________________________________

Harry Potter was happy, truly happy, for the first time in his life, when this old, worn out, magical hat loudly announced Gryffindor as his new house and he took a seat next to the people who would soon become his first and best friends, supporting him and loving him no matter how trying the times were. Conversation was flowing between him and Ron, never stopping and cheerful when he felt those eyes on him for the first time. His head shot up to the table on his right at which the teachers were sitting, green eyes meeting dark ones, color unable to determine from the distance. 

The image flashing in Harry's mind was gone before he could properly analyze it. Yet, for the fraction of a second, Harry was in another's body, staring into his own, green eyes, a soft gold hue surrounding his body, leaving him in an angelic light. The boy did not understand the reason behind it, but when he gazed into the stranger's eyes, he felt happy, felt almost _complete_? Harry could not break eye contact with these hypnotizing eyes, eyes filled to the brim with emotions he could only begin to comprehend.

Ron ripped him out of these confusing feelings one should not feel for his teacher, by nudging the boy with his elbow: "Are you alright, Harry?"

Words spoken with a full mouth, and yet they had a meaning for Harry, who had never been asked about his wellbeing. He nodded numbly, eyes itching to shift back to this man.

"Who is the man with the brown hair? Next to the one dressed all in black?"

It was Percy, Ron's brother, who answered: "That's Quirrell, he's the new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher. Why?"

Harry shook his head, before smiling: "Just wondering." Something felt wrong about this name, as if it did not belong to the man before him. 

Voldemort watched the boy smile, laugh at the other children's jokes, and finally recognized one of the many emotions he had towards Harry Potter. Jealousy. He wanted his golden child to only smile at him with those beautiful lips, wanted the happiness radiating from the boy to be his alone. Those filthy Mudbloods and Blood-traitors around his sun did not deserve the joy he brought, did not deserve his bright eyes and excited movements. It was not Lust Voldemort felt towards the boy, as he was too young to evoke those feelings in the Dark Lord, it was possessiveness.

When his eyes met the Gryffindor's, he felt nothing but pure bliss, felt love and joy, and for the first time since he created his first Horcrux, his soul did not feel shattered. It was at this moment, that a plan manifested itself in his mind. He would use the Philosophers stone to give himself a body once again, before he would take the boy with him, locking him away from the world so that the joy he brought would be his and his alone.

Perhaps, had the Dark Lord Voldemort not been this starved for love or any kind of joy that did not come from killing or torturing, he would have cherished the boy in a different, less mentally harmful to Harry. Alas, his decision, driven by obsession, would bring hardship to the pair in a way unknown to the world.

______________________________

Harry's feet carried him through the halls of Hogwarts at a pace that took his breath away. The bells had chimed almost five minutes ago, announcing the beginning of the next lesson, when he was still in the dungeon after having forgotten his potion's book in Snape's classroom. He had ushered Ron to go ahead and keep him a seat before sprinting back to retrieve his book. The boy wondered how he managed to arrive late to every lesson so far, as most of the first years somehow managed, despite the confusing staircases, walls, and doors. When the Gryffindor finally burst through the door into his first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, breath hitching in his throat, all eyes shifted to him, making him want to shrink away from the stares.

His gaze me his professors and once more, his heart missed a beat before pounding away in his ribcage. Why did he feel like this whenever those dark eyes fixated on him? Was it wrong of him to wish for his professor's attention? He assumed so, yet he had trouble to avert his stare.

"How benevolent of you to join us, Mr Potter. Would you like to take a seat?" Harry flinched at the bemused comment before sliding into the free seat next to his best friend, cheeks blushing dangerously. "Detention, Mr. Potter. Tonight at seven in this classroom.", were Quirrell's last words to him before he turned back to the board, leaving the boy to stare at him in disbelief.

"Five minutes and he gives you detention? What a git", Ron murmured in what he believed to be quiet. It turned out not to be quiet enough for the menacing professor in front of them, giving the Weasley detention with Mr. Filch. The boys exchanged a look before turning back to the board, swearing to never step out of line in this lesson again.

Voldemort had to hide the smirk playing on his lips upon seeing the confusion and anger blazing in his sun's eyes like a storm. He wanted to learn more about this boy, this intriguing, beautiful boy, who defeated him at such a young age, just to give him the strength to cling onto his sanity. The dark Lord had waited impatiently for this lesson, to find out his sun's talent, as he liked to think. Truth was, however, that he yearned for the feeling of completion the eleven-year-old gave him and his soul. In his presence, he could forget the pain of Quirrell's slowly dying body around him and focus solely on the boy. The professor had waited for an excuse to give the boy detention, being able to spend as much time with him as possible and Harry had delivered that excuse on a silver platter. The only problem was the Weasley boy, capturing his child's mind and laugh and influencing him. He had to do something against that, to keep his sun bright and happy.

"Good luck with Quirrell, mate", Ron murmured sympathetically as they made their way from dinner to their respective detention, "apparently we are the only ones who got detention from him this far! Fred and George didn't even show up to the lesson until the last five minutes and he just shrugged it off with a warning, can you believe that?"

Harry bit his lip, wondering if his professor hated him just as much as Snape did.

"Good luck to you too", he laughed before running up the flight of stairs bringing him to the Defense classroom. 

Professor Quirrell was already inside, sorting through a stack of papers when Harry knocked on the open door. "Ah, Mr. Potter. Take a seat." The man with the chestnut hair gestured towards the chair in front of his desk, before closing the door behind the short student. The boy did as he was told, before nervously glancing at Quirrell.

"Do you want me to write lines, Professor?", he asked shyly, not wanting to step out of line again and be given more detention.

However, the man opposite of him merely smiled, sitting down at his own desk. "That will not be necessary." The ensuing pause was almost uncomfortable for Harry, who started wondering what horrors would await him with his Professor.

Voldemort in turn had to resist the urge of closing his eyes upon the feeling of his soul resonating with Harry Potters. He could feel his magic, strong and dark, reach for the slightly weaker light magic of the boy. He was strong for a First-year. The dark Lord yearned to entwine his magical core with his supposed sworn enemy. It took an immense strength of will to focus on the topic at hand, being the boy's 'detention'.

"I believe you could be a dangerously strong wizard, with the right training, of course, one that could easily vanquish the Dark Lord, should he return." Voldemort was sure Dumbledore had somehow given the boy the idea that he hadn't died that fateful night. Indeed, the child's evergreen eyes widened.

"Do you really believe that _he_ isn't dead?", his sweet boy asked with a hushed voice.

The brunet had to contain his smirk as he looked upon the surprising features, as if he had just told him an immense secret. "He might be alive, he might have died. At the given time it makes little difference. However, I am offering you my help, to train you, should he indeed be alive", was the simple, non-committed answer.

To Voldemort, this was a good excuse to see his sun as much as possible without the boy being suspicious of who he truly was. He would have to mold him first, give the boy understanding that he was not the evil nightmare Hagrid, or even the entire wizarding world described him to be. At least he was not to Harry, not to his golden child. In addition, he did not lie. Harry Potter did have strong magic, though he was weaker than Tom Riddle had been at that age.

"Do you agree?", Voldemort questioned, attempting to hide the hope in his voice.

Harry chewed on his bottom lip. What his professor was offering was incredible, the help to protect, should He-who-shall-not-be-named indeed decide to finish what he had started ten years ago in order to avenge his defeat. Hagrid believed the evil man to still be out there, though powerless at the moment and he believed the giant man. In addition, the help given by Quirrell would give him more time to understand why he felt so... _weird_ around his teacher, as he doubted it to be a childhood crush. The man was was at least thrice his age, and did not invoke those butterflies he secretly read about in one of those books Dudley left in his second bedroom, untouched. The feeling of _being-whole_ he experienced around the man was confusing, to say the least.

He finally faced professor Quirrell once more, nodding in agreement, before mumbling a shy "Thank you, Sir", to which the man laughed.

"In these lessons, you may call me Tom, though I must insist on being addressed properly outside of them", he spoke, voice confident.

"Tom? I thought your first name was Quirinius?", Harry questioned slowly.

Voldemort could have cursed himself. This was the first time in decades - not counting the one which he spent withering in pain - he had made a careless blunder, one that could cost him dearly, should the old fool find out about. He might not recognize him, but he would draw conclusions. The dark Lord took in the wide green eyes, the furrowed brows, and knew he did not want to be called someone else's name by Harry.

So he lied: "That is my given name, indeed. Yet I believe it to be unfitting to who I am now. You see, Harry, I had an experience that utterly changed my life a while back. I chose a different name in conclusion."

He saw the curiosity written all over his gem's face. What a good thing he would soon hide Harry away from the world, once he attained the Philosopher's Stone and a body, as he was just too easy to read.

"Another time. Now", Voldemort stood from his chair, "let us start the first lesson. You will practice a simple shield charm."

The wide grin suited Harry and made him forget how to breathe, drowning in the joy the boy gave him through his soul. He would forever cherish this memory.

_______________________________

Albus Dumbledore paced in his office as he, again and again, attempted to understand what was happening.

"Sir", Severus' voice broke the silence in his office, "I fail to understand what confuses you so."

Albus sighed as he turned back towards the potions master: "This should not be happening. By now, Voldemort should have attempted to murder Harry, somehow. I expected it to happen on the pitch today, yet nothing happened." 

It was Minerva who spoke next in a soft, almost pitying tone: "Albus, why do you believe he is here. For a decade, there has not been a single instance in which the You-know-who was active or any of his followers for that matter. Is it that ridiculous to believe, that perhaps he did perish, vanquished by young Mr. Potter?" The woman left unsaid that perhaps, the headmaster was paranoid, seeing ghosts around every corner.

However, headmaster Dumbledore only shook his head at the Professor: "For months, I have felt his presence at the school, the darkness he emits, the danger. I fear it resonates with young Harry. I fear he will be lead onto a dark path, however it may be. I am certain that somehow, Lord Voldemort has been in contact with his worst enemy. Yet, it escapes my understanding, why there were no attempts to kill or torture the poor boy. Does he want him as an ally? Has the information on the boy we do not know? It is the first time I do not understand Tom Riddles actions or motives and it scares me."

Silence filled the room once more, the professors stunned by the Headmasters admitted fear. Dumbledore began pacing once more, the fingers of his right hand caressing his long beard. It took several minutes before he finally let himself sink onto his chair, his eyes reflecting his true age for the first time. "I do not know where Lord Voldemort hides within this castle, nor in what form he is. All I know for certain is that he is here. Yet, I wonder, what he strives for. Keep your eyes on Harry, the Stone, as well as the remaining student body. Be vigilant, as we might all be in danger", the headmaster warns, voice grave. 

Minerva was shaking slightly when she looked at the man she had known and trusted for most of her life, the man who had always known the answer to any problem, slumped down on his chair, a defeated look written across his face. "Do you have any suspicions", she dared to ask, uncertain if she wanted to know the answer.

"I don't", Albus sighed, eyes closing, "he might have a body, he might have possessed one of the students, he might just be a ghost-like presence. Until he acts, we will not know. Tom was, after all, always good at pretending."

Severus pulled his sleeve up, revealing a faded mark, barely visible. "He has not revealed himself to his followers, nor is he planning to. My mark would have been much stronger if this was the case." 

Albus despaired. Evil was lurking in his beloved castle and he, with all the responsibility and power he held, did not know where it was or how to vanquish it. For the first time since the defeat of Grindelwald, he felt truly hopeless and alone. All he could wish for was that he would be able to keep the school, Harry Potter and the Stone safe.

_____________________________

"Do not despair, Harry. It is a hard spell to master", Voldemort comforted his sun, as the boy puffed his cheeks in annoyance, not knowing how adorable he looked when he did this. "Try again", the man encouraged the pupil. He had started teaching Harry dark magic, spells that would never be taught on the curriculum of Hogwarts, as the old fool objected everything that wasn't fully light magic.

"Delacerere!", the green-eyed boy shouted again, while moving his wand in a cross pattern towards the dummy. This time, a tiny rip appeared in the middle of the human-like figure.

"Better", the dark Lord declared, "but you have to remember, behind this kind of spell, intent is always key. You have to focus on what you want, on how much you want it, and convey this in the spell."

He had not told his sun that he was learning illegal spells, as he was certain the boy would somehow unintentionally betray their lessons with his expressive eyes and face, should he know about this. Yet, he needed the child to be powerful enough to defend himself against Dumbledore when war arrived-Though he planned on hiding his sun away, he could never be certain the boy would not be found. 

After a few more tries and a final spell that almost separated the dummy in two halves, Voldemort vanished it with a simple spell. "This is enough for today", he announced, as he saw the tiredness in Harry's eyes. He expected the boy to thank him, before exiting the classroom, as he did every time he was dismissed, yet the student stayed, nervously moving from one foot to the other.

"Tom?", his sun finally asked.

Voldemort swore that Harry would be the only one to ever be allowed to call him by this filthy name. He would prefer his alias above the name he used to have, but it would have blown his cover. Though he hated to admit it, a small part of him enjoyed Harry saying his name, his real name, though he hated the word with a burning passion.

Harry nervously chewed on his bottom lip as he stared at Tom. He could barely muster the courage to ask his question as he stared into the now-familiar brown eyes of his teacher. The comfort they brought him made the boy almost forget his nervousness, as did the joy he felt whenever he was in the same room as the man opposite of him. When he finally opened his mouth, only the familiarity he felt in Tom, a familiarity he barely understood, made him ask his question.

"Did you know my parents? It's just you seem like you might be in the same generation and I was wondering what they were like. Everyone tells me I look like my father, but with my mother's eyes, but no-one ever mentions what their personalities were, what they liked or disliked", Harry knew he was rambling when he blurted out the question. But he just had to know.

"What provokes this question?", his professor asked, not seeming offended or weary of the question, merely surprised. Harry blushed.

"I found a mirror a while back, showing my hearts deepest desire", he finally mumbled under Tom's scrutinizing gaze.

"The mirror Erised", Tom mused, a half-smile playing around his lips, "I am familiar with it. To answer your question, No I did not know your parents very well. I know they were brave and I know that they loved you fiercely. There was one time I saw them play with you. Your father was shooting bubbles out of his wand while you reached for them. Your mother was laughing at her husband's shenanigans. Unfortunately, this is all I can tell you." 

Harry looked at the sad smile his Professor displayed, as well as the eyes filled with an emotion the Gryffindor could not quite place. Regret? Pity? He slowly nodded, thanking Tom for his explanation. His heart was heavy with the lack of knowledge he had of his own parents.

"I just wish...", he began slowly, "I just wish I knew if they would have been proud of me. I mean I barely know anything about them and sometimes I feel like I am insulting their memory with it. So many people offer me condolences when they first meet me, saying how brave they were, going against You-know-who. I am ashamed of admitting I find it hard to grieve their death. How can you possibly mourn a person you did not know, someone who is just as much a stranger to you as the next person you walk by in the street. The sadness I feel when talking about them is the sadness I feel about the loss of the opportunity of growing up with a family, not the one I should feel upon losing a loved one. There are so many things I want to know about them and so little information-" Harry realized he had been talking out loud, voice bordering hysteria, and that his professor was there, listening to him. Ashamed, the boy wiped a tear from his cheek and averted his gaze from the man across from him. "Sorry", he murmured, "you probably don't even care."

"Do not condemn yourself for this, Harry. You feel what every orphan feels. The need to know your heritage and the pressure of society to feel grief for people you never met in your life. I understand some of these feelings, although your situation is unique. Though if it means that much to you, I can assure you that your parents would be as proud as humanly possible of their wonderful child, as would any sane parent" Tom's words comforted Harry to no end, as his professor gave him a smile. 

Without thinking, he threw his arms around the man, burying his head in the other's chest. Instantly he felt strong arms encircle him, pressing him closer towards Tom. It might have been inappropriate for the teacher and his student to hug, yet the comfort Harry gained from it was worth it to both of them. 

Voldemort sighed in content as his magic wrapped around Harry's, his soul merging with the boy's. In this very moment, with the slip of a boy in his arms, he felt happier than he ever did in his life. They were two halves of a whole and only now that his sun was pressed against him, he felt what it was like to be complete. The regret Voldemort felt for his actions upon Harry's outburst was gone, replaced by the love and _forgiveness_ seeping from Harry's side of their bond. Perhaps his sun would forgive him for his actions all those years ago. Perhaps.

When Harry finally pulled away from Voldemort, cheeks bright red, but with dry eyes, he stammered his thanks, whether they were for the lesson or the comfort was left unclarified, before stumbling out of the classroom. The dark Lord chuckled, before turning back to his previous task, grading papers.

_________________________

_Somebody wants to steal the stone_. Indeed, when Harry stepped through the flames, leaving behind an injured Ron Weasley and a crying Hermione Granger, there was a figure standing before the Mirror Erised. However, it was not the greasy git Severus Snape, but Harry's favorite professor, the man who taught him spells, many upper-year students never even heard of.

"Tom?", Harry asked carefully looking around the room. "Tom! Snape wants to steal the stone! We came down to stop him! You have to help us!", he then shouted before running towards his beloved teacher. 

However, the words said man uttered had him stop dead in his tracks: "Come now, Harry. I taught you better than this. Why would Snape steal the Philosopher's stone?" 

"To give it to Voldemort, so that he-", Harry lost his voice when Tom turned to him, eyes bright red. His legs threatened to give out beneath him as he gazed into those eyes and the realization hit him like bludger. "You- You are- You-", he was stammering, unable to form a sentence. Voldemort laughed the same laugh Tom would laugh when Harry reenacted his latest shenanigan to him in the classroom that had become his safe house.

"Yes, sweet Harry, I am Voldemort, in the body of Quirinius Quirrell." Harry wanted to cry.

"What did you do with Tom?", he demanded angrily, trying to hide the fear for his Professor. "I am him, Harry, I am Tom, I am Voldemort. I took this body over a year ago."

The Gryffindor stumbled back. "Everything you told me. It was all a lie?", his voice was desperate, tears welling up in his eyes. "Hush, little one. I told you I am Tom, the very person you trusted. Never did I pretend to like you for an ulterior motive."

A sob escaped Harry as he spoke. The man, who invited him to call him Tom, who comforted him in every situation, who promised to train him against Voldemort, that very man killed his parents, rendering him an orphan, and attempted to kill him when he was just a child.

"How could you?", the green-eyed boy's voice was nothing but a whisper as he attempted to wipe the tears off his face. "How could you look into my eyes and talk about my parents, when you were the one who murdered them? Did you not feel any regret?"

Voldemort inclined his head at his sun's accusations. It pained him to see the tears in the once so joyful eyes. "I felt more regret than ever before in my life", he whispered truthfully. Yet, his sun did not believe him, rightfully so, perhaps. After all, he did not feel regret for the death of Lily and James Potter, but regret for causing Harry pain. He saw the way the child clenched his fist around his wand, saw the defiance and fear. His child would fight him and was merely looking for the right opportunity to do so. With a sigh, Voldemort waved his hand and invisible ties encircled the boy, rendering him unable to move or speak. Harry was not yet able to perform non-verbal spells. Voldemort turned back to the mirror. His sun would soon understand that he was not the enemy, once Voldemort had hidden him away from the world to keep the joy and love he brought to his surroundings to himself.

Harry engaged all his muscles, however weak they may be, in an attempt to break out of the ties Voldemort had caught him with. He had accomplished this sort of thing once before, when Vernon had died him to the table like a dog as a punishment, though looking back now, he had probably used accidental magic for his escape trick. Now that magic was binding him, his attempts were useless. Perhaps he could hex Voldemort if he just-

His thoughts were interrupted by his parent's murderer pulling him in front of the mirror with his magic, before standing behind him, hands on the boys shoulders.

"What do you see?", the dark Lord asked with a small smile. Harry wanted to hex him so badly for this question. He had confined to him, had told the man that his deepest desire was having his parents alive and with him, yet he forced him to look at the mirror once more, mocking him by standing there. 

Yet, when he glanced into the mirror, he was surprised to see his reflection pulling the Philosopher's Stone from its pocket just to drop it back there. The Gryffindor was even more surprised when there was an actual weight in his left pocket. Harry Potter pulled out the most valuable Alchemistic object from the pocket of his oversized trousers to glance at it in surprise.

Voldemort felt his body falling apart under the touch of Harry's shoulders. Quirrell's body was weak, from the moment he had possessed it, it had been a race against time, as his magic burned the body from within. He had seen the burnt flesh of his chest this morning, had felt the incredible pain of the wound, forcing him to act much earlier than he had planned. He had assumed the body would last for another year, giving him more time to earn his sun's trust. Alas, he had to act now, taking the boy earlier. The next few years with the boy would be trying and dangerous, but Harry Potter would trust him in the end.

"Give it to me", he murmured, as the look of surprise in the child's face clearly revealed his possession of the stone. 

Perhaps, Voldemort should have anticipated Harry Potter's Gryffindor stubbornness, as the boy dashed away from him in a quick motion, sprinting across the room towards the fire he had entered through. With a heavy sigh, he snapped his fingers, ignoring the pain of burned flesh, in order to bind Harry once more. "Give it to me, Harry." 

"Never!", the boy shouted, with all the courage he possessed. Slowly, fighting the pain, Voldemort made his way towards his sun. He did not have much time left. "I admire your courage, child, alas I need to insist you give me the Stone", he whispered as his fingers danced across Harry's face. "Please", he finally added, using the bond between them to influence his sun. He could see the defiance crumble in the boy's eyes before he knew it was too late. Finding himself unable to move, Voldemort stared at his hand, burning from his own magic.

Harry stared at the madman who killed his parents in disbelief as he screamed and sunk to the ground. Was he unable to touch him, somehow? Harry scrambled back, but was brought down towards the kneeling man with one single movement. Voldemort's arms enveloped him and suddenly, Harry felt as if he was burning, felt as if his body was on fire. 

The bond between Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter forced both of them to feel the death of Quirinius Quirrell's body as it was incinerated from within. The Dark Lord and the boy screamed from the pain, screamed until neither knew if it was his own or the other's voice. The pair clung to each other, to the comfort the other's soul brought in order to endure the pain, not knowing the bond intensified it. 

It felt like hours to both of them, when the body of Quirrell finally crumbled away under Harry Potter's hands, leaving nothing but ashes. Harry's vision was filled with black dots as he swung back and forth. Perhaps he hallucinated when he gazed upon what looked like a ghost with red eyes. Later, he would not be sure if he did hear Voldemort whisper into his ear. _I will be back, my sun, we will see each other once more and I will not let you go when it happens_. When the spirit disappeared, Harry felt utterly alone, as if a part of him had vanished. 

Later, after waking up in the hospital wing, he would not tell the headmaster of how close he felt with Voldemort, of how _complete_ the evil wizard's presence made him. He would keep this to himself, cherishing and resenting the feeling.


	4. And I trust and trust again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Year 2 is quite short, sorry. Just so you know, the next chapter will be longer and about Harry's fourth year. Everything happening in year 3 is canon. Thanks for reading, please let me know if I need to expand on a few things or if it's unclear :)

Harry could not admit to himself that he had trusted his parent's murderer. As he stared onto the faces of his parents, smiling at him from within the book Hagrid had gifted him, the guilt threatened to swallow him whole. Lily and James Potter had died to protect him, as headmaster Dumbledore had said, and here their son was, running around with the very person who ended their lives. How could he ever begin to live with this guilt, this pain, Harry wondered. Perhaps he knew that he couldn't, not when he had enjoyed being with Voldemort, had looked forward to their lessons. The headmaster had reassured him it was not his fault, that Tom had always been a master of deception. Yet...

The boy who lived dared not think about the memories with his oh-so-beloved professor. With a heavy, but trembling heart, he took those cherished-hated-disgusting-wonderful memories and locked them in a part of his brain to which he lost the key, as to never be reminded of them again. With it, he buried the knowledge of the spells his enemy taught him, intending to never make use of any of them. A part of him possibly recognized the darkness of those spells, though he refused to acknowledge he had practiced the magic his friends and parents despised. 

When the child returned to the Dursleys, his only remaining family, he had forgotten how he had suffered in their mundane house. In Hogwarts, he had convinced himself the cruel disregard, almost contempt with which he was treated was his imagination. However, in the complete isolation of his room with nothing but the occasional chores or scoldings from his relatives, Harry felt as lonely as he had never been before. Now, that he thought he had finally made friends, people who cared for him and supported him, he could not remember how he had survived a decade of emotional neglect. When the contact with his friends turned out to be non-existent, he couldn't help but wonder if they condemned him for the way he had praised Quirrell-Tom-Voldemort whenever the conversation allowed it. 

In his small room, Harry Potter turned to a part inside him, which gave him comfort no matter what. Unbeknownst to him, it was part of the very man he so despised. By a bystander, it could have been described as meditation, the way the Potter boy sat on his old bed, eyes closed, hands resting on his thighs in a relaxed and calm manner. Perhaps it was meditation, though it was not the intention behind his actions. In a part of his mind - or was it his body? Soul? Consciousness? - Harry found a calming voice, whispering sweet words he could barely understand. The constant flow of quiet murmuring took any sense of time away from him, leaving him frozen in his room, unmoved, until Petunia Dursley demanded he maw the lawn and water the plants in their garden. 

The first time Harry clearly understood anything the voice in his mind whispered was when his uncle threw him into his room with more force than necessary, locking door and window. Kill him. Kill him, it will be easy. Just one spell. The tone, still sweet, almost hid the dark meaning behind the words, yet Harry reared back from the place in his mind that uttered the words, over and over again. Kill-Kill-Kill-Kill. He did not realize he was rocking himself on the floor of his bedroom, in sync with the cruel words in his mind, until the voice faded back into the steady, inaudible whispers the boy was familiar with. 

Slowly, the green-eyed child loosened his arms from the strong grip they had around his legs. His body ached as he stood up and wiped a lone tear from his cheek. Was his reaction caused by the shock of those unspeakable thoughts, or was it because deep down, a part of him wished the death of this man? He dared not continue this thought, fearing the result of it. 

To take his mind of those horrible thoughts, Harry Potter threw himself into his studies, secretly, of course, finishing his homework and even reading up on the content of the next year. Hermione would be so proud of him. If she even cared. Yet, the voice persisted in the back of his thoughts. Whereas he once had to search for it, now it was always there, a steady flow of syllables. It scared Harry, just as much as the fact that it seemed to grow louder every time he concentrated on it

A house-elf came, declaring confusing things, such as danger at Hogwarts, before dropping Petunia's carefully crafted dessert onto the head's of their guests, earning Harry what appeared to be life-long imprisonment in his room. Yet, he could never have been happier when his best friend appeared in a flying car, rescuing him from the captivity. It was at the Burrow, in the midst of the most loving family he had ever known, being the happiest he had been since the beginning of his summer holidays, that he first felt the pain.

Searing hot and freezing cold came crashing over him, as he attempted to pass the sugar to Mr. Weasley at the breakfast table. Was he truly being ripped apart or did he just feel that way? He could not tell anymore. Harry knew for certain, that he had never been in this kind of agony, no matter how badly Dudley and his friends hit him, not even the time they broke his nose and arm. 

In the blazing pain, he heard the voice in his head in full clarity. " _My sun, my golden child. I will be there soon_." Harry was unable to place the familiarity of the words in his mind through the pain and when it finally ebbed away, he could barely remember them. 

When Harry's eyes finally focused back onto the world around him, he saw the worried faces of the Weasley family gazing upon him, not daring to touch him, should they intensify the pain. "Harry! Are you alright?", the worried voice of Mrs. Weasley seemed to echo in the quiet room. "I think so", he croaked after a few minutes. His muscles hurt as if he just tried to run a marathon. "Do you need to see a doctor?", Mr. Weasley questioned, to which Harry only shook his head. "It's fine", he murmured, not wanting to explain he heard a voice in his head and that he believed the voice caused his agony. 

Lord Voldemort was back in his world of agony, the world filled with the feeling of being ripped apart, with nothing but a piece of his sun's soul as a company. How had it all gone so wrong? He had a perfect plan, had been in arm's reach of everything he wanted, just to be ripped away from it all in a brutal manner. Even the piece of the other's soul did not comfort him now, not after he had been in the embrace of the boy, had felt as if the world had shifted. The dark Lord yearned to be reunited with his sun.

He saw snippets of the boy's life once more, though they came more and more frequent. All Voldemort wanted to do, was to slaughter those people who dared to harm his treasure, the one that was his and his alone. The fat muggle and his child, together with the skeletal wife. The Cruciatus would not be enough for those muggles, as he would torture them over and over again, until they would not even be able to remember the name of his sun. Only then would he end their misery.

Voldemort felt happiness and love through the bond once more, as the ginger family appeared in the images he received. He relished in those feelings, though jealous he did not cause them. He would be reunited with his sun, even if it took another decade. 

___________________________________

It seemed as if his presence in Hogwarts made the voice in Harry's head quiet down to the point at which he could only hear the whispers when he truly concentrated on them. Similarly, the sudden bursts of blinding pain had vanished the moment the boy set foot in the castle he regarded his home. He was unaware that the century-old wards of the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry blocked his connection to the Dark Lord. 

Considering their dramatic entrance after the holidays, the young wizard's second year appeared blissfully uneventful, with no forbidden corridor, no possessed teacher, and no deadly traps. Harry should have known nothing good ever lasted when it came to him. Yet, he could never have expected the extent of the danger they found themselves in. Students and ghosts were being petrified, as fear became evident in every witch's and wizard's eyes. None of them dared to move through the corridors on their own anymore. The green-eyed child was being suspected of being the heir of Slytherin, threats, and insults following him wherever he went. In the midst of this chaos and fear, Harry found Tom.

The name evoked fear in Harry, as did the comfort the boy in the diary brought him with his written words. Despite the fear and suspicion, Harry could not help himself, as he slowly began to trust a different, yet similar to Tom once more. Soon, the child confided himself to the diary, telling him about the Chamber of Secrets and the distrust he was treated with. Tom gave him the feeling to be worth more than those around him. It scared, just as it thrilled him.

 _'Parseltongue is a rare ability, one you must cherish. Many great wizards possessed it.'_ Of course, Tom's writing was flawless cursive as it appeared on the pages. Harry's scrawling contrasted it alarmingly: _'But everyone thinks only evil people can speak to snakes. Ron said it's a Slytherin trait!'_

_'Ah, House prejudice. Such a trivial thing if you are trapped in a diary for decades. Every house possesses valuable and foolish traits.'_

_'But Slytherin is evil! Voldemort was a Slytherin!'_ He was aware he sounded like a stubborn child as he rapidly scribbled his answer into the diary.

_'Can you condemn the moral compass of an entire house for the actions of one man, whom you perceive as evil? Voldemort had many followers, to my knowledge, which suggests that not everyone's conception is equivalent to yours. The individual houses all value power, in the end, though they give you different ways to achieve it. Greatness cannot be measured in good or evil, only in power.'_

Harry tapped his quill against his lower lip a few times, contemplating the diary's views. He knew he disagreed. In Gryffindor, it didn't matter that Neville blew up his cauldron in almost every lesson, or that Seamus incinerated most of the object he was expected to transfigure. Power did not matter to them, though bravery did. He knew that 'coward' was one of the worst insults to a Gryffindor, as he had seen the older students challenge others to duels for one muttered word. Harry himself valued good actions, valued kindness and friendship above power. Yet he found it difficult to argue with Tom, as he understood where the sentiment came from. Voldemort had been powerful and respected for it, though fear was the general sentiment towards the dark Lord. 

_'Were you in Slytherin?'_ , he finally asked, _'they value ambition. Ambition and greatness are not so different, neither is power. You may be right, though it is different for me, for those I know. We value different things._ ' Harry attempted to explain his thought process to Tom as best he could.

_'Very good, Harry Potter. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps at Hogwarts, different things matter, as only a few of you possess any worthwhile power. Despite that, you will find that once you enter the real world, only power matters.'_

_'Do you know anything about the chamber of Secrets?'_ , Harry questioned the diary in a later instance.

_'It was opened once during my time at Hogwarts. They threatened to shut the school down.'_

_'What happened?'_

_'I can show you, if you wish, young Potter.'_

Tom Riddle was beautiful in every way. Though Harry concentrated on the memories he was shown, the boy could not help but admire the dark looks of the teen, which he would later describe as seductive. The way stray locks of hair found their way onto Tom's face were graceful, almost purposeful, and in contrast to the bird's nest atop Harry's own head. High cheekbones and a straight nose gave the diary's inhabitant an aristocratic appearance. Yet, the most memorable thing to Harry was the grey eyes. He couldn't avert his gaze from those eyes, in which a storm seemed to take place. They haunted him well after he had left the memory, as did the blush on his cheeks.

Voldemort despised himself for what his Horcrux attempted to do to his sun, for what he himself had almost done. The basilisk had come so close to killing the golden boy, so close. It scared the dark Lord and urged him to lock the boy away from all danger as fast as possible. He felt the fear through the bond, the betrayal and wondered, how he could ever be forgiven for everything he had done. How many more pieces of his soul would attack Harry Potter, not realizing he was one of them, that he carried their soul, just as Voldemort carried his. 

When the basilisk's tooth pierced through the boy's skin, Voldemort wanted to scream at him to move, to not lie down on that stone floor, to not give up, just as much as he desired to hold his sun close to his chest, whispering in his ear that everything would be alright and nothing would hurt him ever again. It was futile. The wards around his beloved school blocked the connection their souls had developed over the course of the previous year, especially summer. Harry could no longer hear him, nor feel his pain. Perhaps it was for the best, as the pain seemed almost impossible to bear for the small body. 

The man formerly known as Tom Riddle could not bring himself to care as Harry destroyed a piece of their soul. The pain he felt as he watched the life exit the child through his own eyes overpowered any fear he might have felt upon the destruction of his soul. He had six more to save him from death, though he was uncertain if his sanity would survive, should his sun perish. 

For the first time in his existence, the dark Lord was thankful for Albus Dumbledore, as his Phoenix saved the boy's life with a single tear. He himself could have cried as a surge of energy rushed through the bond, accompanied by relief. In return, Voldemort pushed an emotion through the bond, which he believed to be love, one the boy had taught him. 

Harry once more hated himself for the trust he held in the diary, in _Tom_. It seemed Voldemort had come back to haunt him. He did not dare tell Dumbledore, ore anyone else for that matter, of his feelings towards the murderer, fearing the disappointment in his twinkling eyes. How could he feel this connection, this confidence in someone who was so wrong, so evil? This was supposed to be his worst enemy, who had attempted to kill him three times. So how was it possible that Harry relished in every conversation he had with the man? Unbeknownst to him, he would both love and fear the answer to his questions. 


	5. This heart doesn't do what it's told to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important Notes at the end!!!!!
> 
> But if you're bored during quarantine you could listen to Billy Talent... they make amazing music in my opinion and their lyrics are quite deep (depending on the song)

It was no wonder that Harry Potter had been chosen for the Triwizard Tournament, as he appeared to attract trouble wherever he went. Despite his good hopes and intentions for this year, he managed to find himself in yet another life-threatening situation, one he would not be able to escape easily. _Dragons_. The first task terrified him to no end. His fingers cramped around the wood of the bench beneath him as the cheering for Krum slowly died down. So he did well, as did the other two champions, if the level of sound was anything to go by. 

The tent was closing in around him, suffocating him slowly. Fear clawed at the insides of his stomach as he stared at the miniature dragon in his hand. Harry knew he should step outside now, should face the real, fire breathing, _deadly_ version of the Hungarian Horntail. _A test of courage_. The teen was a Gryffindor and thus supposed to act bravely, yet he struggled to even breathe as the silence followed after the announcement of his name. 

He had to stick to the plan he had developed with the help of Hermione, Hagrid, and Professor Moody. In theory, it was simple enough: summon his Firebolt, distract the creature, retrieve the egg. Harry battled his mind-numbing panic as he forced himself to step into the open of an arena. This was what he was best at, what he loved. The creature's enormous head immediately swung towards him, making him want to duck back into the security of the tent. 

Harry Potter dodged the blazing fire coming his way out of pure instinct and reflex, trained by Quidditch and evading Dudley's punches growing up. He barely managed to take shelter behind a boulder, before another breath of the dragon incinerated the very place he had stood only seconds ago. The cold November air, combined with the muddy ground made wisps rise from the black spot on the ground. What good was it to survive Voldemort three times, in order to be burnt alive by the lethal creature? "Accio Firebolt!", Harry screamed, clutching his wand firmly in his hand. He could only pray to all gods known to him, that the spell had worked. He had practiced and succeeded multiple times, yet he was doubtful, as one was expected to be when his life depended on it. 

The mother did not leave her nest as she spat more fire into the vague direction she assumed Harry to be, forcing him to leave the safety of a now melting boulder. Where was his Firebolt? Despite his quick reflexes, the boy was unable to dodge the next fireball. 

Harry barely felt the pain as he stared at the black flesh of his arm in shock, wondering if the fire destroyed his nerves. Thankfully, his wand arm was uninjured, allowing him to cast a quick healing spell he learned last year. The simplicity of it was not enough to have any visible impact on the wound. His arm was trembling as he lowered it, fighting the tears welling up in his eyes. It was too late when he noticed the sudden heat on his skin.

Voldemort knew of the danger he was putting his sun in once more by forcing the boy to participate in this ridiculous tournament. Yet, it was once necessary for his own safety. The dark Lord had ensured Barty Crouch knew exactly what his punishment would be, should anything happen to the Boy-who-lived. Despite these precautions, he did not trust the madman to properly take care of the treasure that was Harry Potter, keeping his mind focused on the bond between them on the day of the first task. The power he had accumulated now, that he was no longer a wraith, made it easy to slip into the boy's unprotected mind, regardless of the distance between them, the connection of their souls assisting him.

It was harder to take control of his sun's body, as he now had his own and was physically far apart from the younger wizard. He forced his control onto the boy nonetheless, using all the magic available to him to secure Harry's safety. The teen's wand reacted well to their mixed magic, allowing him to cast the series of powerful spells ensuring the survival of Potter. 

"Undae!", the boy's voice was high, laced with fear and adrenaline, despite his blissful unawareness of the world around him, as the forced possession had caused his mind to blackout. In conclusion of Quirrell's possession, Voldemort could ignore the oddity of speaking with another's voice, allowing him to focus solely upon the danger on hand. 

The spell he had cast was one he invented in his years after Hogwarts, a far more powerful extension of Aquamenti, designed to extinguish dragon fire. As expected, the wave of water shooting out of his wand was massive, standing between Harry-himself and the fireball approaching them at the speed of light. In a matter of seconds, the collision left vapor behind, blocking both the audience's and the dragon's vision, allowing Voldemort to cast a series of protections spells upon the body of his sun. 

As the air slowly began to clear, Voldemort spotted Harry's broom coming towards him. With all the time it had taken to arrive, he had begun to doubt the teen's abilities. The dark Lord was not particularly good at flying, he certainly did not maintain the level his dear Horcrux had acquired, but he knew it would be safe for Harry to take over, once he rendered the dragon... incapacitated.

"Secabere", he whispered, not allowing the audience to witness the dark magic he performed. Though he was certain Karkaroff would not mind in any way, the old fool would certainly suspect _something_ , though it may not be the truth. The enchantment he cast severed the dragon's wings and legs in a clean way, while the accompanied "Silencio", cut off the painful wails of the majestic creature. Voldemort was certain they would find a way to either heal the beast or put it out of its misery. He, after all, did not care for it. His sun came first.

In a quick and relaxed manner, which did not reveal his unease at the prospect of being on a broom, the dark Lord pushed himself off the ground, before retreating into his own mind. Bit by bit, he allowed Harry to regain control and consciousness, hidden by the lingering vapor.

Harry almost fell off his broom as he suddenly opened his eyes to face the pained eyes of the dragon. It took him a few moments to understand the gruesome sight before his gaze. He wanted to empty his stomach contents. Blood covered every single egg in the nest before him, hot and thick. The golden egg was merely a few feet away from his grasp, yet he dared not approach it, as a bloody stump covered half of it. What once was the dragon's wing was now a severed mass of cuts and holes, crushing half of the eggs in the nest. 

Did he do this? Was he the one to slaughter the dragon in such a cruel manner? Did the voice in his head, the one urging him to kill, to torture and to destroy, finally convince him to act upon it? Harry felt sick. 

It wasn't until he heard the gasps and screams from the audience that Harry was able to pull himself together. The task was not net complete. It was almost too easy to evade the few, weak attempts of the dying creature trying to defend its nest. As his hands clasped around the cold metal of the golden egg, his vision was blurred. He did not register it was from tears until he felt them running down his cheeks. The boy-who-lived landed at the edge of the arena, away from the destruction he could not remember bringing. He barely had the courage to look up to the audience and the judges. 

Shock greeted him out of everyone's face. Shock, fear, distrust, _hate._ All doubts about his actions were erased immediately, as he faced the judgment of his peers and superiors. Though the teen could not remember his own actions, there was no doubt he had indeed committed this crime.

He was just as much of a monster as Voldemort. No wonder he had trusted the madman on more than one occasion. How could he ever face Sirius again if he was just as bad as the man who had killed James and Lily Potter? How could he look into Ron's eyes again? Ron, who suspected him after he had been chosen for this damned tournament. 

This time, Harry couldn't keep the contents of his stomach inside. He bent over, throwing up his lunch as his arms clutched his stomach. He was a monster. He was a monster. He was a monster. _Monster, monster, monster._ It echoed in his head like a loop, taunting him. Harry barely registered Madam Pomfrey pulling him aside to examine his blackened arm before casting a series of spells on it and forcing a potion down his throat. How could she treat him when she had seen what he had done? 

The teen was shellshocked, almost bent double as he was healed. A multitude of teachers tried to get to him, tried to get him to listen to them. He could not hear any of them, as his ears rung and his head seemed to consist of cotton. It was Hermione who dragged him back into his brutal reality with comforting eyes and warm hands. It was unclear to him how the girl had managed to be let through, though he did not complain. Her eyes held no fear, no hatred towards him, merely concern.

"Harry? Can you hear me? You have to go to the judges to get your score. Can you get up?"

How did he deserve such a friend? Harry only managed to nod at his friend, before attempting to stand up with shaking legs. Hermione did not hesitate to put an arm around his waist to support him as he stumbled towards the judges. 

They stared at him, eyes wide, stared at the dragon, at the damaged eggs, and saw a monster in the teenage boy. His scores were ridiculously low, considering he had been the fasted of the participants. It did not bother the boy, though the indecipherable emotion in headmaster Dumbledore's usually twinkling eyes made him want to hideaway.

He came last of all the participants and as the spectators slowly began to disperse, Bartemius Crouch came towards him in a rush. "Mr. Potter, a word alone please", the man asked with a pointed glance towards Hermione. The girl left with a few flustered words, leaving Harry to the mercy of the dangerous eyes of the ministry official.

"Be warned, Mr. Potter", he murmured, "Dark magic will not be tolerated outside of this tournament. Though the rules do not forbid the use of this kind of sorcery, the world does. Should you make use of any spell of this sort again, the ministry will not hesitate to put an end to it. Have I made myself clear?"

Harry could do nothing but nod with wide eyes at the sudden outburst. The man opposite of him returned the gesture with a curt bow of the head and the words: "Good day." 

Mr. Crouch left behind a broken Harry who once more cursed himself as a monster.

"Harry, my boy", headmaster Dumbledore looked powerful behind his desk, covered in extraordinary artifacts as he gestured for the teenager to sit on the chair facing him. "I must confess this first task was quite a shock for most of us. Lemon drop?", the man asked, blue eyes twinkling despite the seriousness of the situation. _A shock_. What a pretty way to describe a slaughter. To prevent Harry from answering in a bitter manner or with tears the boy took one of the sweets offered to him with a forced smile.

The silence was deafening until the headmaster broke it with a whisper: "Are you alright?"

It wasn't what Harry had expected, wasn't the harsh questioning about his performance. Dumbledore did not resemble a fury as he looked at him through his half-moon glasses. Instead, the man looked old and exhausted. 

The green-eyed boy could do nothing but smile a sad smile as he returned the gaze. "I'm alright", he mumbled, voice as tired as Dumbledores. He couldn't tell what prevented him from confiding his blackout, his dreams, his visions to the he trusted in every other matter. Dumbledore had known best in so many things, had given him advice on so many occasions, had helped him save Sirius. Yet, a part of him couldn't reveal this part of his life. Perhaps he was ashamed, perhaps the part of Voldemort in him urged him to hate the man. 

"Promise me to inform me, should anything happen that frightens you", was the kind answer of the headmaster, though it was heavy and laced with worry.

"I will", Harry retorted before slipping out of the chair, "Thank you, headmaster."

The man had seen the signs, had counted two and two together. Severus had shown him the strengthening mark on his forearm, eyes filled with unexpressed panic. The magic in the world had begun to shift once more to accommodate the power of Voldemort, as it had decades ago. He was sure Harry had felt something concerning the dark Lord, as the two were bound by so many things.

Albus Dumbledore watched with a sight as the boy-who-lived walked out of the door and he could not help but be reminded of another boy, so many years ago. He had to help Harry, had to prevent those sad, sad eyes from turning dark and emotionless, as he had seen it on Tom Riddle. Oh, Tom, what have you done to this happy, wonderful boy, this child whose evergreen eyes once shone with life? After all, if minds are persuaded enough, compassion turns to hate.

"What exactly happened out there?", Hermione was the essence of tranquility as she dragged Harry into the empty classroom.

"I don't know", he whispered barely audible, desperation clearly visible on his face.

His friend sighed in response before starting her lecture: "Word around the school is you are a dark wizard. First the incident with the snake two years ago and now this. Despite those facts, I know you. I know you could never harm another being. We rescued a Hippogryph from the law last year, you saved Ginny from the chamber of secrets and Sirius from the dementors. Hell, you and Ron were unable to kill that spider last month, no matter how much it scared Ron or annoyed you."

Her words made Harry give her a half-smile, despite the severity of the situation.

"Not to mention you are not good enough to cast any of those spells. We had to practice the summoning charm for _days_ ", his friend teased him when she saw the smile, "So I ask again: What happened?"

"I called my Firebolt, dodged a few fireballs, get injured and suddenly find myself on my broom in front of a dying dragon. I'm scared Hermione- I don't know if it was me who did this, or how I even did it."

Harry decided to confine himself to her. He told Hermione everything, starting from his trust in Voldemort-Quirrell-Tom, to the voice in his head, to the pain attacks. The teen admitted his fears of becoming a monster, of giving in to this part of him that urged him to be cruel. When he finished, hands trembling, tears welling in his eyes, the girl did not say a word. She simply pulled him towards her, squeezing him tight in a hug. He couldn't help but wonder how she could loosen his tongue so easily. She convinced him to reveal a part of him he was deeply ashamed of. Harry had told his friend things he had refused to tell Dumbledore. How did she do it?

"Don't worry, Harry", Hermione muttered, "you aren't a monster. As long as you did not enjoy what you did, much less remember it, there is no need to worry."

Tears streamed down Harry's cheeks as he clung to his soothing friend. As the case may be, it was for the best Harry told her, since he could not carry the weight of his secrets on his shoulders alone. He wasn't Atlas.

___________________________

Ron continued treating Harry with a mixture of ignorance and contempt, though he couldn't tell if it was because of jealousy or genuine fear concerning Harry's performance at the first task. In any case, it made Harry's life in the Gryffindor tower incredibly hard. The sneers and glares of his dorm mates and once close friends made him feel hopeless.

Nightmares plagued him. Nightmares of fire, blood, death, and Tom - though it was Voldemort in his more terrifying dreams. He would awake screaming, tears running down his face, with a body shaking like a leaf. It was especially during those nights that he couldn't stand the once comforting common room. More often than not the boy savior could be found wandering the corridors at night, hidden by the invisibility cloak with dark circles under his eyes. It was on one of these strolls that he met Luna.

He had snuck out of the castle to sit by the lake, savoring the cooling night air on his sweaty skin, the cloak discarded next to him. 

"Hello", her voice was dreamy as she sat down next to him. He stared at her as she leaned back and closed her eyes. In the end, he could not bring himself to care about the strangeness of the situation and simply followed her example. He almost enjoyed her presence, quiet yet calming, as well as the lack of questions and suspicions thrown at him.

"Nightmare?", the peculiar girl finally asked, "you should protect yourself against the Nargles, they like troubled minds." 

Harry's eye shot open, in order to stare at the girl in disbelief. 

"The what?", he finally asked.

"Nargles", she answered as if it was self-explanatory, "they made you do that thing with the dragon."

He continued his stare, surprised that this girl, with her radish earrings, bare feet, and yellow pajamas, believed in Harry's innocence concerning the first task. Or at least she believed _something_. Though he did not even know her name, Luna's presence soon became a soothing constant in Harry's life, as he encountered her often outside of the castle after curfew, despite the fact that she appeared and disappeared without his knowledge. The teen almost thought she was a ghost his mind conjures, until her at the Ravenclaw table one evening. 

The green-eyed boy ended up asking Luna to accompany him to the Yule Ball, a purely platonic arrangement enabling her to attend and him to avoid any hateful comments. For a short while, he escaped everything in his life as he danced with his friend. Luna anchored him, helped him to stay afloat in the sea of dark thoughts, secrets, and hatred. With her light and carefree attitude, she held him up by one hand while Hermione took the other with comforting and rational words. They kept him out of the darkness.

Luna and Hermione became the only good things in his life following the fiasco of the first task. It, therefore, was hardly a surprise when his 'treasure' during the second task was the thirteen-year-old girl. He was the first to reemerge with his friend, followed by Diggory with Chang and Krum with Hermione. Fleur was unable to retrieve her sister.

___________________________________

It was the approaching third task that induced fear in Harry, accompanied by a feeling of glee that he knew was not his. The boy had abandoned studying altogether and busied himself by spending his time in either the library researching spells or the transfiguration classroom McGonagall had been kind enough to lend him for practice. Hermione helped him most of the time, eager to learn. Sometimes Luna would sit on a desk in the back, barefoot, and reading either a magazine or a book. To his surprise, she would give him advice about his stance without looking up, advice that mostly improved his spells. They made a good team, though Harry wished with all his heart that Ron would cease his animosities towards Harry. The teen longed for things to return to the way the used to be, prior to this mess, though he knew it was impossible. 

One late night Harry found himself in the classroom on his own, as Hermione had gone to bed early in order to prepare for her Astronomy test with a good night's sleep. He did not know where Luna was, as it often was the case. Curfew had passed an hour ago and the young boy fought sleep with the anxiety regarding the task next week. The opening door startled Harry, who spun around with his wand raised. Though as only Professor Moody stepped into the room, he lowered it, staying wary nonetheless. 

"Practicing for the last task, Mr. Potter?", the man inquired, a small smile on his lips.

The questioned merely nodded, turning back towards the target on which he practiced various spells Hermione had suggested to him. 

"Might I suggest a few spells that ought to turn out helpful in the maze?", his Professor had a glint in his eyes, which made Harry uneasy. It reminded him too much of the curiosity with which the man had performed the Unforgivables on the spider and students.

"I was under the impression we 'stood alone' once we were in the tournament?", the attempted to seek a polite way to decline the proposition.

"And yet you all knew about the dragons."

The student blinked at his Professor while contemplating the offer. At this rate, he certainly could use all the help he could get. Despite Hermione's intelligence, it took even her some time to understand more complex spells without a clear demonstration. In addition, though Harry hated to admit it and would certainly never tell her, the bushy-haired Gryffindor was not a good teacher. Professor Moody's classes were easily understandable and the ex-Auror possessed a broad knowledge on both defensive and offensive spells. It wouldn't hurt taking some suggestions concerning which spells would be useful and how to master the ones he struggled with. 

"What are your suggestions?", the boy queried cautiously. 

"There are a few options. For one: Trudo", the man performed a wide motion with his wand, facing the target, which was flung backward. Upon collision with the wall, it broke. After a quick 'reparo', Moody pointed towards the target.

"Try it."

Harry chewed on his bottom lip. The spell itself indeed seemed valuable enough for him to at least attempt it. It took him some time to learn and even then the spell did not bear the same power as the one performed by the professor, but that had to be expected. 

"You can practice it further later one. For now, here is another: Delacerer!"

Harry knew this spell, knew it's effects without having to stare at the ripped apart target opposite of them. He had attempted it, though the memory had been locked away with the promise to never use it again. Especially now, when he appeared to turn into the same monster that was Voldemort, he did not want to revisit any of those memories. The nightmares were enough already. 

"Potter?", the man's voice was rough as he gripped his shoulder with his strong hands. Harry hadn't realized he was staring at the destroyed target with wild, unnerved eyes. God, his hands were shaking. 

"Excuse me, Professor. It's getting late, I should probably go to bed. I have an Astrology test tomorrow and...", he did not finish the mumbled sentence.

Instead, the green-eyed teen darted away from Moody with the speed that made him such a good seeker. The man in turn watched him leave with a peculiar expression written across his face.

"Let's take it together. It will still be a victory for Hogwarts after all."

Harry stared into the grey eyes of Cedric Diggory and could not help but feel like he did not deserve to win, at least not as much as the Hufflepuff, who had willingly entered this tournament and was Hogwarts' favorite. Yet their arguing would not lead anywhere and the wizard refused to claim the prize for himself. 

"On three?", Harry asked, voice meek. 

"On three", was the prompt reply.

When his hand curbed around the eerie cup, the boy-who-lived immediately felt the familiar sensation of being pulled by a hook connected to his navel. A portkey. The cup was a portkey. When he was thrown to the ground, eyes closed, Harry told himself they were transported to the entrance of the maze, to the safety of Hogwarts. Yet, the bizarre silence and the humidity in the air made this possibility increasingly unlikely. 

The sight that met him when he finally found the courage to crack his eyes open was frightening. Harry knew this graveyard, had seen it in his more realistic nightmares. The statue with the name Tom Riddle on in caused the boy's entire body to shake. 

"Cedric?" Why was his voice so weak?

"Cedric?", this time the panic he felt was clearly audible in his shout.

"I'm here. Harry, where are we?" The boy glanced at his surroundings in wonder. 

"Get back to the cup, something doesn't feel right!"

"What do you-?"

Harry knew the feeling. He knew this sense of being complete too well, had yearned, and feared it all the same. His soul was calling out to someone and he was certain it was Voldemort. Understandably, the surprise on the teen's part was small when the door of a shack opened to reveal Wormtail. In his arms, he was carrying a bundle, which Harry's soul recognized all too well, though his mind fought the realization. Voldemort, alive. Were those visions he had seen of the man, instead of nightmares conjured up by his imagination. Harry did not allow himself to dwell on those thoughts.

Harry Potter sprinted towards Cedric Diggory as fast as his feet would carry him, barely registering the Dark Lord's words.

"Kill the spare!", spat out, filled with hate.

So slow. The time in which the Hufflepuff fell to the ground after the bright green curse struck him seemed like an eternity to Harry. It was the eyes that would haunt him forever, no longer filled to the brim with emotion, staring into nothing. The clouded grey resembled a rainy sky and fog. He couldn't breathe, thinking he was suffocating for what felt like an eternity. 

Dead. 

Cedric Diggory, a 17-year-old _student_ , was dead. 

While the angles slept, all the devils were awake, it seemed, stealing innocent lives. 

Harry felt nauseated as he chocked out sobs and tears ran down his cheeks. Dead. With a blurry vision and a mudded mind, the dark-haired boy barely registered being bound to the statue above Tom Riddle's grave. It wasn't until Peter Pettigrew cut his forearm with a jagged knife, that Harry was ripped out of his lethargy. With an injured arm and bound body, the boy-who-lived was forced tow witness the resurrection of Lord Voldemort.

White skin, covered with a hint of scales. Red, red eyes, the color of blood, with slitted pupils. Full dark hair with slight curves. The teen wished he could say he hated the appearance of the dark Lord, found it disgusting, or at least fearful. Yet, he could not help but be mesmerized by the man in the flowing black robes. Guilt washed over him like a wave at the realization. How could he admire this man, fell this safety around him, when Cedric's corpse law only feet away from him, still warm? He was about to be killed by this man, for god's sake. 

"Harry Potter", Voldemort's voice was almost soft as he examined the trapped boy before him with his head cocked to the side. 

Purposeful steps brought the dark Lord in front of the boy-who-lived as their eyes met. Both felt the profound connection they shared as their souls called out to one another with desperation. The manner in which the older man lifted his hand to touch the boy's forehead could almost be described as hesitant, though both yearned for the touch. 

Harry sighed in contentment when the man's cool fingers traced his scar. It felt so good, so right to be touched by him. He relished in the feelings caused by the touch without knowing the reason behind them. Voldemort in turn felt ecstatic to have his sun bound before him. Everything he wanted was at the tip of his fingers, close to grasp. 

"How you've grown", he smirked at his sun, his sanity. Though the boy was still short, much shorter than Voldemort, the baby fat had begun to melt away. The cheeks still held a hint of roundness, despite the sharp cheekbones. The dark Lord's hand wandered into his sun's hair, gripping the unruly black mop, pulling his head back forcefully. The full lips seemed so inviting...

It was the dark glint in the man's eyes that shook Harry out of the trance he had been in. He neglected the thrill he felt as his throat was bared to the danger that was Voldemort in favor of the spark of survival instinct coursing through him. His flight instinct wasn't nearly as strong as he had hoped it to be and if he was honest with himself, Cedric's corpse lying beside him was the only reason he feared the man whose lips were only inches away from his. 

"Let me go", Harry pleaded, his voice little more than a whisper. 

The grin on the dark Lord's face caused both fear and a warm sensation in his stomach, "Why should I, dearest Harry?"

A finger traced his throat, before trailing up the side of his jaw towards his lips. The thumb resting against his bottom lip made it hard for the teen to think. He fought the urge to open his mouth and let the digit inside. Where did those thoughts even come from?

_Cedric is dead. How dare you enjoy this?_

"Please", Harry hoped his voice did not come out as a sigh. He never felt less like a Gryffindor in his life as he begged for the murderer of his parents to let him go, while wishing he would... what exactly did he want the man to do?

"You beg so nicely, I might be inclined to offer a compromise", the dark Lord answered, his breath stroking Harry's face like a lover's touch. 

Upon the abrupt release of his hair, the teen could not decide whether he felt glad or upset, while Voldemort turned towards Wormtail. Through the dark mark on the pathetic man's arm, he called forth his followers.

It was surreal, watching Lord Voldemort reprimand his followers as they cowered in fear. The Cruciatus curse was used more than once, causing Harry to wonder once more if he was indeed a monster for feeling those _things_ around a man so evil.

"Now, to business. Harry Potter", the Lord Voldemort's smirk was dark and twisted, "Let me recount what occurred that fateful Halloween 1981, to set things straight if you will." He turned to his followers before carrying on: "Lilly Potter, the Mudblood used _love_ to save her only son, causing my spell to rebound. I admit, I should have foreseen this, yet it does not change the fact that Harry Potter is powerless against me", something sinister passed over his face as he turned back to Harry, "You begged for your freedom and I am merciful. I am willing to strike a bargain. Let us duel. In the unlikely case of your superiority, you will walk free. However, should you lose... well, you can barely imagine what awaits you." 

Harry could not help but wonder if he was walking right into a trap by accepting the offer. Though, if he thought about it, the duel's purpose was the display of the dark Lords power, to prove that nothing stood in his way - not even Harry Potter - and to further showcase what would happen to the death eaters upon a second betrayal. The teen was powerless compared to the Dark Lord. He barely knew how to duel, those lessons in his second year having been an absolute disaster. He might not be walking into a trap, yet he was doomed. The least he could do was go down fighting.

"I accept", his voice was not nearly as strong as he wished it to be. 

"Let my _loyal_ followers be witness to the bargain."

With a wave of Voldemort's wand, the bindings holding the teen in place fell to the ground, allowing him to take a couple of steps away from the grave. The older man extended a hand towards him and it took Harry a couple of moments to understand he was meant to shake it in order to seal the bargain. The boy hesitated.

"I only need to somehow get away from here, correct?", he questioned, "that's how I earn my freedom?"

It was a carefully worded question, as he knew he would not be able to defeat a man who was feared by all of wizarding Britain. Therefore his chances of escaping were much higher, even if he would have to use the skills he acquired through years of 'Harry hunting'. Said man's eyes narrowed and Harry could not help but acknowledge how _captivating_ he looked. Finally, a sharp-toothed grin splattered across Voldemort's face.

"Of course."

With a deep breath and a sinking feeling in his stomach, the boy-who-lived took the offered hand of Lord Voldemort. Magic took it's hold, sealing the bargain in less than two seconds, yet both parties clung to the other, unwilling to let go. It was Voldemort who finally broke the skin contact, despite his magic clinging to the boy. With a few steps backward, the formal distance for a duel was between them, stretching like a canyon, like eternity for the two beings yearning to touch the other. 

"I trust you know how to duel?", Voldemort taunted with a smirk as he gave a curt bow, the bare minimum of courtesy. 

_No_ , Harry wanted to scream. He did not know how to duel, not properly, had never learned what spells were useful in duels, how to use surroundings or how to recognize the opponent's intentions. Not to mention he could not perform non-verbal magic yet. Despite all that, he nodded slowly, before giving a bow himself, slower than the other in an attempt to buy himself time. The boy gripped his wand tight, as to not reveal how badly his hands were shaking as he raised it. 

It was the dark Lord who threw the first spell in utter silence. His wand did not form any treacherous pattern, nor did his face reveal any hint towards the nature of the spell. Once more, Harry's reflexes saved him from a possibly lethal spell as he flung himself out of the path. Adrenaline coursed through his body, tightly laced with fear. He was a survivor, would always fight for his survival, no matter what. _You just need to escape somehow._ The teen spent the following minutes dodging spells of which he did not know the nature, though he did not recognize any of them as the killing curse. It seemed as though the dark Lord was toying with his prey. 

Harry bolted behind a decaying grave after a particularly vicious sequence of spells, fired closely after each other. Trying to catch his breath, he gripped his wand tight. He was a _Gryffindor_ , was supposed to be bold, yet all he could do was dodge spells and hide behind gravestones. If he could not escape, at least he could die fighting. It took all the courage he had left to stand up and face the smirking dark Lord awaiting him. 

"This has been amusing, darling. But I believe there is no time for such shenanigans. Conquering the world is a lot of work", Voldemort chuckled as he raised his wand. The death eaters around them cheered as they believed the final, lethal strike to come. 

Despite their beliefs, the final spell cast by Lord Voldemort was a simple stunner, which collided with Potter's disarming spell midair. The connection created a dome, made of golden light and phoenix song. 

Voldemort should have known that none of his plans could go smoothly given that Harry Potter was involved. No matter what age, the dark-haired boy had a tendency to besmirch carefully organized plots. Now here they stood, in the middle of a muggle graveyard, surrounded by golden light, when Harry should be lying on the ground motionless and ready for him to take his sun to a safe place where no one would ever find him. 

_So many deaths_. As the green-eyed teen fought with his shaking hands to maintain the connection between his and Voldemort's wands and himself alive, more and more souls escaped the tip of his opponent's wand. He recognized the first few, Cedric, the man in one of his dreams - visions? - then, his parents.

It hurt endlessly, seeing the shadows of his parents. Harry had believed Dumbledore in the matter of the mirror of Erised, he could have decayed in front of that mirror, staring at the perfect picture of him and his parents, while wishing. Wishing. To see them now, after he had let Cedric die, had let the dark Lord touch him, had _enjoyed_ it, hurt him more than he ever imagined. Yet, they smiled at him. Warm, soothing smiles that reminded him of Hermione. His father told him to get the cup and run back to Hogwarts, while Cedric begged him to take his body back with him. 

"Harry", his mother's tone was soft, "know that, no matter how you feel, we will always love you. You are our son, our treasure. We love you, Harry." 

It left him on the brink of tears. Were his conflicted feelings concerning this monster not to condemn, despite all he had done? He refuted the thought promptly as his gaze fell onto the shadow of Cedric Diggory. The boy had died, as had countless others as a result of the actions of the man in front of him. In addition, Harry would follow soon, if he did not make it out of this graveyard as quickly as possible. 

"Let go, Harry. Let go."

And he did. 

It was almost too easy, grabbing the lifeless body of the Hogwarts champion in one hand and the cup in the other. Yet, when Harry landed on the grass in the midst of his cheering peers, all he could feel was the _emptiness_ of his mind and soul. His body yearned to touch, yearned to be touched by Lord Voldemort. As he clung to the corpse in his arms, unaware of his surroundings, all he registered was the void in his being, overshadowed by the goal to escape the monster _._

Headmaster Dumbledore grabbed him in an attempt to loosen his grip on Cedric, whose eyes still stared into the night sky, unseeing. Harry barely registered it, yet, when his eyes met those of the elderly man, tears dimmed the bright green eyes. 

"Help me", he whispered, "Please, god, help me."

The emptiness threatened to swallow him whole as he ached for the soothing presence of Lord Voldemort.

Lord Voldemort roared as his precious sun disappeared before his eyes, leaving him alone once more. Alone and hollow. Did the boy not feel their connection? Did he not desire the feeling only the dark Lord could give him? The man consoled himself with the thought that Harry Potter was merely a fourteen-year-old boy, incapable of accepting reality for what it was. His sun had gladly given in to his touch, had basked in the feelings it evoked just as Voldemort had.

The man had gambled. It had been a risk to allow his sun a chance at escaping through a duel. Yet the prize would have been Harry's cooperation, at least to a certain degree. He would have preferred to take Harry with him, compliant through the bargain, after showing the boy his place, though he supposed it would work in a different way. 

If Harry Potter wanted to play hard to get, the dark Lord would leave a trail of bodies behind to take his sun.

_________________________________

Professor Moody was Barty Crouch Jr, a death eater responsible for the death of his own father, the slaughter of the Longbottoms, and the murder of countless others. He attempted to kill a lethargic Harry, who could do nothing more than watch. He would have welcomed the sweetness of death, had Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall not barged into the locked room. Anything would be better than the emptiness he felt. It broke him, bit by bit.

Perhaps he had always been this empty. Perhaps the black void at his core had been filled by Lord Voldemort, just to be forcefully ripped out by none other than himself. All Harry could do was take the memories of being whole again and lock them to the ones he dared not think about.

Harry Potter gladly accepted the hollowness, the pain and the desperation that came with this decision, in order to rid his consciousness of the guilt he faced. 

When Albus Dumbledore finally seized the opportunity to question Harry, the boys once so brilliant, evergreen eyes were dull, overshadowed by feelings no teenager should feel.

"Harry", Albus began in a wary voice, "can you tell me what happened tonight?"

In the privacy of the room, the questioned allowed himself to breathe and to understand the full extent of tonight's events. He did not cry, as all his tears had been shed in the graveyard. Instead, he recapitulated most of the occurrences, leave out only his feelings. 

He confessed his nightmares and visions, which he couldn't keep apart, described the voice he heard in his head telling him to kill, and narrated his actions during the tasks of the tournament.

It was when Harry got to the part concerning the graveyard and Voldemort that he faltered, before picking his story up as a detached, unemotional narrator. 

"So Voldemort is back", Dumbledore murmured upon the conclusion of Harry's story. There was no reaction from the _child_ opposite of Albus.

"Do not fret, Harry. You are safe now. He will not find you."

All Harry could do, was give a sad smile. _Perhaps I want to be found._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I really, really, really hope you like it, cause I'm not quite sure if it's alright what I did here... (nervous laugh)
> 
> Anyway, just in case I didn't make it clear enough: Harry is really scared of the connection he has to Voldemort and of how he feels when he is with him. He feels guilty for liking someone who killed his parents and so many others and feels like this makes him evil as well. That's why he immediately accepts that he slaughtered the dragon and feels like he deserves the way everyone treats him (or at least doesn't fight it).
> 
> I hope you are all doing alright in quarantine (it's the only reason I even work on this fanfic, cause there's nothing else to do) and please tell me what you think of it.
> 
> Thanks to @LivingDeaDGirl224 for the request - I will probably take inspiration from the second part of your suggestion, but make it in Harry's fifth year because 14 seems a bit young to me (I know I said Underage and I am a sucker for age gap but 14 is just a bit too underage for the story (sorry))


	6. I dream and wonder, where is reality?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Year 5, whooooo
> 
> We're starting to really leave canon today... wish me luck XD
> 
> A bit shorter than planned as well, but the next chapter will be longer again...

Summer was a new form of torture to Harry Potter, boy-who-lived. The hole in his chest grew bigger with every passing day, morphing into a dark monstrosity crushing him in the most agonizing way. He couldn't find the strength to leave the house anymore, dragging his limp body through the chores set by his family, eyes dull. At first, there had been a desperate anticipation regarding letters from his friends or uncle, though it rapidly turned to dejection as they failed to arrive.

The lethargy that caught the teen in its cold grip was only lessened by the nightmares. They had gotten worse, yet Harry longed to feel something, anything, no matter if it was crippling fear and anxiety. 

He often dreamed of Cedric, his body glistening in green light, looking almost glorious. It was what came after that tuned the green-eyed teen's blood to ice. The slowly falling body, eyes unseeing, with fear plastered across his face. _Why did you not take my body back? You led me here and left me behind._ The accusations were the worst part, as he wanted to scream his innocence out, despite the knowledge of his part in the Hufflepuff's death. Harry would wake up panting and covered in sweat and tears.

Yet those dreams of death paled in comparison of those he had of blood-red eyes and cooling fingers. The dark voice, so mesmerizing and _seductive_ filled the emptiness for a short time, though he could barely remember what the man had said. Where the thoughts of Cedric left him a shaking, bawling mess, the images of Voldemort gave him tranquility, closely accompanied by guilt. 

On other occasions, Harry received visions of unknown places, people and objects. He couldn't place them, couldn't find a meaning behind them, yet he knew they were linked to Voldemort from the way he felt after them. It scared him to no end.

It was on the night of his fifteenth birthday that Harry had his first wet dream. 

_"My sun, why did you run?", voice soothing, "why did you run from this?"_

_Cool fingers traced Harry's scar, as they had in the graveyard, before burying themselves in his hair once more. Voldemort looked ethereal as he loomed over Harry with blazing eyes. The teen's breath hitched as his enemy moved even closer to him. Once more his head was tugged back forcefully as the Dark Lord's eyes glided over his face, a hunger in them that scared and thrilled Harry all the same. The boy's eyes dropped to the man's lips, so close and yet so far. Too far._

_It was Harry who pulled the other towards him, closing the distance. Their lips met in a haste, with desperation, though moving in perfect sync. The dark Lord's tongue licked along his bottom lip, requesting entry, which Harry gladly gave. He moaned around the man's forked tongue, as a battle of dominance ensued. The fight was vicious, though the teen felt as though Voldemort was once more toying with him._

_More. All Harry could think of was the dark Lord, whose hands made their way down towards his bottom, holding his cheeks in an almost bruising way. Yet, he wanted more, wanted..._ something _. He sought friction against the body of Lord Voldemort in any way he could, hands, chest, tongue. When the man who held him bit his lip, Harry's hips made an unexpected, yet welcomed twitch, searching for contact with the man._

_"Tom", he moaned, hands clinging to the other's hair._

_Was it a growl that escaped Voldemort's throat as he moved his hips in turn, though more viciously? Harry moaned at the dark Lord's hardness, grinding his hips against the man._

_"Harry", the groan came out between two open-mouthed kisses, trailed along the boy's jaw._

_Harry sucked in a sharp breath as he felt sharp teeth grazing the sensitive skin of his neck._ _So close, he was so close._

 _"Please", the teen didn't even know what he was begging for anymore, only knew that he wanted_ more _._

_"You beg so nicely", the phrase from the graveyard sent shivers down his spine, although he welcomed them with open arms, "but I'm afraid this is something I would rather do with you on my bed, in reality."_

_The boy whined in response, moving his hips desperately, while the dark Lord chuckled against the skin of his neck._

_It was the almost violent attack on his neck in combination with a rough movement of Voldemort's hips, which sent Harry over the edge screaming._

_"Happy Birthday, my sun", were the last words Harry heard, as he was still riding on the high of his orgasm, before he woke up with a startled_ _gasp_.

Harry Potter was breathing heavily as he sat up in his bed, sweat coating his forehead, hands shaking. The dampness between his legs had him hoping he had peed himself, instead of having an orgasm to the touch of a monster. Of course it was the latter. What was wrong with his mind? As the boy stood in the shower in the middle of the night, trying to wash off the filth of his imagination while sobs escaped his tight throat, he could not help but wonder: Vision or dream? All he knew for certain was the absence of the hollowness in his soul for the remaining day, before it came back with all might.

______________________________

Upon Harry's arrival at 12 Grimmauld Place, a fragile truce ensued between him and Ron. It hurt him, knowing that his best friend of three years no longer wished to be associated with him, though he had expected the redhead's behavior to be worse. His former friend had stopped making snide comments, a relief to the teen. They began a new relationship, in which they greeted and otherwise avoided one another. Considering the size of Sirius' childhood home and present confinement, it was not an accomplishment.

Other than Ron's cold shoulder and a dawning hearing, Harry loved his time in the Order's Headquarters - at least as much as he could with the hole in his chest. Their cleaning activities and the presence of Sirius and Hermione took his mind off the reoccurring dreams of _touching-coolhands-redeyes_ , he dared not think of. 

"Do you think my parents would have loved me?", Harry asked Sirius one night, over a cup of tea.

The latest bad dream had driven him out of the tiny room he shared - to both their dismay - with Ron. The former convict's eyes shot up from the alcoholic beverage in his hand.

"Why do you ask?"

The boy chewed on his bottom lip in thought, before answering: "With everything that's been happening lately I just..."

He couldn't bring himself to finish. Sirius would assume he referred to the Triwizard Tournament and the resurrection of Voldemort. Harry felt disinclined to inform his godfather about the confusing feelings, deeply entwined with dreams and guilt. Despite the summary he had given Dumbledore, his reaction to the dark Lord's presence remained a secret. An embarrassing, sinful secret. 

"Harry. Lily and James were the most loving people I know - knew. They spoiled you rotten, although Lily would deny it immediately. Even if you weren't perfect, which believe me, you are, I can assure you, that they would be incredibly proud of what you have become. They love you. Remember that."

Sirius eyes shone with sadness, while a smile ghosted on his lips. The pain of the memory of his best friends was evident. His words lifted a small part of the weight off Harry's shoulders.

"Thank you", was all he could say in response, the words coming out choked. 

"I mean, it's not like you are a bloody Slytherin or dark Lord now, is it?", Sirius words, accompanied by a laugh and a friendly pat on the shoulder immediately banished the smile that had stolen it's way on the teens face. 

Harry wasn't a Slytherin, nor a dark Lord. Yet, the hat wanted to put him there and his affection towards the murderer of his parents made him just as twisted. His parents would have hated him, had they known the truth, as would Sirius. Perhaps Ron was right with his distrust towards the boy. Was he indeed turning into a second dark Lord? Harry's thoughts turned to Luna and Hermione. Would they abandon him, just as Ron had, if they knew the truth about his sick feelings? Harry knew he would not be able to see the loving eyes of his friends and godfather turn to cold disregard. He would keep his secrets to the grave, even if it would destroy him.

______________________________

The teen stared at his hand, bleeding words etched in the back of it, and could not bring himself to care. His dreams of Voldemort had decreased drastically, when he set foot onto the grounds of Hogwarts. While Harry would like to declare that he enjoyed the dreamless nights, accompanied by the occasional nightmare of Cedric, truth was that he missed the horrifying _sensation_ of Voldemort. The immense gap in his soul was tied to the dark Lord and the lack of contact increased it. Was he turning insane?

"Is there a problem, Mr. Potter?", the sickly sweet tone of Dolores Umbridge made him sick.

He forced a smile on his face, before answering politely: "Not at all, Professor."

"Then you may proceed."

The woman enjoyed the pain the detention prompted in Harry. She was delighted when blood began dripping down his hand onto the desk after the tenth line of 'I must not tell lies'. He hadn't meant to make any statements about Voldemort's return, figuring it would be wiser to concentrate on the impending OWL exams, but the woman infuriated him in every way imaginable. 

Yet, the detention did not hurt him in the way the Professor might have envisioned it. It felt almost _good_ , etching those words into his skin, temporarily filling the emptiness he couldn't shake. Word for word, Harry brought the lines down on paper, losing the knowledge of what and why he wrote until there was nothing but pain. Sweet, fulfilling pain. 

"Mr Potter! Can you hear me?"

Umbridge's renewed attempts to get his attention finally snapped him out of the pain. He stared at her, eyes wide, as realization dawned. A small puddle had formed around his hand. The words branding his skin were bright red and messy. Harry wondered if he had indeed liked this pain, while he stared into the woman's squinted eyes.

"You may leave now", harsh, with nothing of the sweetness left.

The boy dropped the quill as if he had burned himself, before grabbing his bag and sprinting out of the classroom, vowing himself to never again touch that quill.

For the first time, he truly felt as if the sun would never shine again.

Hermione awaited him as he finally made his way back towards the common room, sporting a poorly bandaged hand. The girl was nervous, her gaze darting around the room frantically, before pulling Harry into a corner.

"Harry, I- What happened to your hand?"

With tired eyes, he shrugged: "Nothing. I tripped over a false step on the stairs."

The teen did not want to talk about his disastrous detention, nor did he need Hermione's pity or coddling. Suspicion was clearly visible in the witch's expression, yet she decided to believe him for the time being, coming to the original topic of discussion.

"We can't just sit by while this woman ruins the curriculum. Not only will we fail our exams, but we will also be completely defenseless against You-know-who!"

Harry certainly admired Hermione's ability to put the threat of mutilation, torture, and death through a dark wizard in the perspective of failing one subject, yet he had to admit that his friend did have a point.

"I know, it will be impossible to pass the Defense against the Dark Arts examination without any practice, but what do you want to do? The woman is still our teacher and if everybody fails, the grade boundaries will be lowered", he shrugged.

Both of them knew exactly, that there was little a couple of students could do against a ministry-appointed professor.

Despite this knowledge, Hermione furiously retorted: "I don't care about the grade boundaries! I want to get a good percentage and that will be impossible without any practice", only after a deep breath she continued, "my proposition would be to create a... study group, if you will."

"A study group", the teen inquired, eyebrows raised. 

"Well, one that studies a bit further than the teacher might condone?"

"And who would join this so-called 'study group'?" 

"Just a few", was the vague reply Harry should never have believed.

As it turned out, Hermione's definition of 'a few' was about half of their year group, in addition to some older and younger pupils, though Harry wondered how the older students would benefit from a study group run by him and Hermione. Even though most of Hogwarts' population continued to shun the boy-who-lived, they were more than content in joining, whether for learning purposes, social aspects, or purely out of spite towards Umbridge. As the words about the 'secret organization' spread throughout the student body, more and more joined, leaving Harry and Hermione baffled.

The Weasley twins came up with heroic names for their growing group, most of which were ridiculous enough to fit the situation. The name of the study group switched from 'Defense against the Dark Arts study' to slogans such as: 'The Resistance', 'The brave ones', 'The Umbridge Resistance', 'Umbridge stinks' and 'Hogwarts' Finest'. In the end, Fred and George settled for 'Dumbledore's Army', despite the popularity of the previous 'Umbridge is a toad'.

Their antics, in addition to the group he now taught in cooperation with Hermione, cleared Harry's mind and kept him busy, which he welcomed with open arms.

______________________________

Mr Weasley, bloody, weak, on a cold stone floor. Harry had been the snake, had attacked the defenseless man. He truly was evil. Sirius's words came to his mind, those words meant to be comforting, yet causing so much hurt. _As long as he wasn't a Dark Lord_. Nevertheless, he came close to it, much closer than the teen would have liked. Or was he already a monster? After all, he had liked biting the man, tearing the flesh of his body, and injecting the poisonous venom. It was wrong, so wrong...

"Potter, you will listen to me when I speak to you!"

Professor Snape loomed over him, intimidating as ever. Harry mumbled an apology.

"The headmaster wishes me to teach you the complex art of Occlumency so that you may defend your mind against the Dark Lord. He most definitely will be aware of your ability to see into his thoughts and certainly will use it against you. It is a two-way street after all", Snape justified the teen's presence in his office.

"Professor, what is Occlumency", the fifteen-year-old interjected weakly, still shaken from the vision of blood and-

"It describes the ability of warding one's mind against intrusion and is the counterpart of Legilimency, the latter describing the intrusion. I will attempt to enter your mind, you will aim to keep me out, though I sincerely doubt your ability to succeed", the explanation was followed by a sneer as the man pointed his wand at his student.

Harry wanted to protest, to enquire how to secure his mind against the brutal assault that followed, unfortunately, it was too late. Severus Snape effortlessly entered his mind, pulling forth memory after memory.

_Five years old, running, running, running away from Dudley with brutal fists and taunting shouts._

_Eleven years old, Hagrid, magic, happiness._

_Nine years old, school, loneliness, laughing children._

_Fourteen. Cedric's cold, dead eyes staring into oblivion. Fear, panic, adrenaline. A glimpse of Voldemort, mesmerizing._

No, no, no-no-no-no. Snape could not see this, could not see the things the monster caused, the closeness between the boy-who-lived and the Dark Lord. With a desperate scream, Harry pulled at the memory, gripped it with invisible hands, ripping it towards him. He was successful, as a memory of Harry's childhood took its place.

"Not as hopeless a case as I had expected, yet still terrible. It is not sufficient to take one memory, as the Dark Lord is a master of Legilimency. Keep me out of all memories, Potter", the evaluation was harsh.

Professor Snape barely gave Harry time to catch his breath or order his thoughts, before he began another attack. 

In the following hour, the teen's memories were brutally dragged forth, one after the other. With cold eyes and a grim expression, his Professor examined what felt like every dream, every fear he ever had. It was an intimacy the green-eyed boy was not prepared to share with his year-long tormentor. Despite the invasion of Harry's thoughts, he somehow succeeded in keeping any memory or feeling concerning Voldemort out of the man's greedy grip. He would not share this with a man who despised him and was a follower of the monster.

It took a couple of Occlumency 'lessons' for the situation to get critical once more. Though Snape had gotten close to the dangerous memories of anything concerning the dark Lord, the Professor never truly bothered with them. Unfortunately for Harry, the boy still hadn't achieved any progress in warding his mind, whether it was due to Snape's failing teaching or his inability to focus under attack was unclear. 

Harry couldn't stop the man's searching mind as it effortlessly pulled forth the _dream_ he had on his birthday, the one he feared to remember. With horror, he watched the memory unfold, felt complete once more, as he always did after dreams or visions of the man he considered his enemy. Once more, he tore at a memory with a desperate panic, yet he was unable to stop his Professor this time. 

The teen screamed in his mind, screamed in reality, shouted at his professor to: "Let go!" 

It was a blessing that the man did so in a matter of seconds after Harry watched the dreamed up kiss. Panting, with tears burning in his eyes and sweat coating his forehead, the boy stared at Snape, who in turn could not turn his eyes from the pain and fear written across the other's face. Without another word, Harry gripped his bag and fled the dungeon, leaving behind his Professor, who could not grasp what he had seen in the boy's mind.

Severus Snape immediately made his way towards the headmaster's office, a slight tremor in his hands. Dumbledore would have to be informed, he was certain of it, yet he could not help but wonder, whether or not he should conceal the memory from his second 'master'.

It hadn't been the sight that had shocked him, as both the boy-who-lived and Lord Voldemort seemed to have an unhealthy obsession towards one another, but rather the feelings the boy associated with the _compromising_ situation he had dreamed off. Attraction would have been normal, as far as one could consider it in regard to Voldemort, even lust would have been understandable. However, the _peace_ and _tranquility_ felt by Harry were disturbing to him.

"Severus, my boy. What may I help you with?", Dumbledore questioned with a polite smile, as Snape barged into his office without his customary knock.

"There was something in Harry's mind you need to see", was the blunt answer.

"Ah, in that case, the Pensieve is to your right, as per usual", the headmaster indicated.

"You should look into my thoughts, as it is a rather... unusual emotion."

Albus inclined his head, before looking into the black eyes of Severus Snape. Upon his reemerging out of the Potion's master thoughts, his eyes looked tired and defeated.

"Please, sit. This will be a long discussion", the old man sighed and Severus complied.

"You see, that Halloween, a piece of Voldemort's soul attached itself to the only living thing it could find, young Harry..."

The man told the tale he believed to be true, unknowing that it was only a half-truth. For not only Harry held another's soul.

"The emotions the boy feels are not his own, they are echoes of the dark Lord's soul yearning to be reunited?", Severus questioned, "He will have to die to secure the dark Lord's death and the world's safety?"

The headmaster nodded with a sad smile: "Unfortunately."

Despite Dumbledore's beliefs, the feeling of emptiness that took hold in both Harry Potter and the Dark Lord was not an echo. It was the consequence of two souls so deeply entwined by fate that they could not continue their existence apart from one another. Happiness would elude both without the other, a concept the Headmaster could not grasp, as he perceived Tom Riddle's soul to be dark, tarnished, and beyond repair, incapable of love. 

____________________________

"Harry! This one has your name on it!", Hermione exclaimed too loudly. 

In the midst of rows upon rows of shelf containing white orbs, Harry Potter stood, accompanied by Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger. The stillness in this vast room seemed as a harbinger for the storm that was to come. The boy-who-lived turned towards his friends, hands gripping his wand in fear.

The orb Hermione was pointing at indeed had a sign beneath it, bearing Harry's name. He extended his hand towards it, entranced by the smoke filling the glass, as his fingers brushed the smooth surface. The teen took the orb of the shelf, wondering why his name had been written here of all places. Harry's gaze darted across his surroundings once more, searching for his godfather.

"This isn't right", he mumbled, "Sirius should have been here. He should have..."

 _He will use it against you_. Words spoken by Severus Snape all those months ago. If Sirius wasn't here, that meant...

"It's a trap", the boy hissed, eyes wide. 

"How smart you are, Harry Potter", he knew the cold voice. Lucius Malfoy.

The blonde man had appeared before them, blond hair perfectly styled, as per usual, with impeccable, expensive clothing. The green-eyed teen raised his wand, while simultaneously gripping the cool glass in his hand. 

"Give it to me."

"What is it?", Harry queried carefully.

"This is the answer to everything. A prophecy concerning you and the Dark Lord. Did you never ask yourself why you were the dark Lord's antagonist? Why you have that scar on your forehead? There is a reason behind all this, a reason which you hold in your hand at this present moment", was the intriguing reply.

The boy was aware that his small group was surrounded by death eaters, had felt their presence creep up around them, unable to act without endangering any of them. Time. He had to buy time. Perhaps the Order would find them. Should Snape indeed have alerted them, they would be here soon.

"Why did Voldemort want me to retrieve it?", the teen felt the tremor in his voice.

It was Bellatrix Lestrange, who spoke next, screeching at the audacity he had to speak her Lord's name, before being interrupted by Malfoy once more.

"Only those concerned by the Prophecy can retrieve it. You, in this case."

Harry's hands began to shake. He had walked them all into this mess, had led the only friends he had to the slaughter. How could he, for one moment, have believed what Voldemort had shown him? The man had lied to him so many times before, had tried to kill him even more times. 

"We have you surrounded, Potter", the man's slick voice taunted him, "give me the prophecy and you will walk free. Unharmed."

Lies. Adrenaline shot through Harry, as he secured his grip on the weapon he held.

"Now!", his shout lost itself in the colossal hall, yet it was heard by those close to him.

They fired their spells, opening up a path to freedom. Their escape was a blur. Harry's legs hurt as he sprinted behind Hermione towards the exit. The boy barely registered the falling prophecies, shattering on the floor, unheard. He grabbed Hermione's arm at some point, pulling her out of the way of a collapsing shelf. Out of fear to lose her, he did not let go afterward. Into the room with the identical doors, choosing one at random in hope for the exit. Behind them, they left a trail of broken prophecies, time turners, and curiosities.

Harry did not know when they lost Neville and Luna, yet, when he and Hermione stumbled into the room of death, they were alone. His legs shook, Adrenaline coursing through him. 

"Hermione", he whispered, just to make sure his friend was still there, next to him.

"I'm here, Harry", she grabbed his hand, raising her wand in preparation for what was to come. 

He followed her lead, though it was futile. 

It pained Harry, watching his closest friend getting tortured by a crazed Bellatrix Lestrange. The woman was cackling, her pitch too high, too loud, at the suffering she inflicted on the girl. 

"Stop! Please stop", Harry screamed, tears running down his face, as he fought the bindings holding him in place. He had done this, had led his friends here because of his stupidity. They were paying the pride for his belief into a vision that he had been warned of. What a monster he was. 

"Bella will stop when you give us the prophecy. Be quick, Potter, the Mudblood's sanity is at stake", the grin on Lucius Malfoy's lips made the teen shudder. 

Without a second thought, Harry pressed the orb into the man's hand.

"Please. Let her go", he begged, gaze cast down, shoulders slumped in defeat. 

So many ways, in which he had failed. 

"Do it, Bella. Call our Lord", the blond ordered full of glee, before turning to Harry once more, "Don't fret, Potter. If you ask nicely, he might give you a quick death. Although I have to say, from what Draco described, I would have expected a fight instead of this rash, uncoordinated escape attempt. Leaving your friends behind? Such a Slytherin move."

Harry's eyes burned, fixated on Lucius' shoes. The bindings on him cut into his skin. If he could just get his wand, laying mere centimeter's away on the floor, dropped as the restrictions took hold. He just had to slide his foot, slowly...

"Harry."

The voice was one Harry would recognize anywhere. It haunted his dreams and nightmares, causing pleasure, guilt, and fear. 

"Voldemort", was his quiet acknowledgment, before he lifted his eyes towards the man before him.

Tranquility filled him when his eyes met the blood-red ones. As the dark Lord's magic wrapped itself around Harry in a tight manner, he felt as if he finally came home. For the first time in months, which felt like an eternity, Harry felt complete, happy even. A sob escaped him. How could he live without this? How could he exist in an undone state? 

_"My dear sun. Do you feel this? Our souls entwining?"_

The question, formulated in Parseltongue, made Harry shudder.

 _"Yes_ ", he breathed in the same language, subconsciously taking a step closer towards the dark Lord.

_"You don't have to feel alone or empty ever again, my Harry. Take my hand, I will make you forget all the pain you ever felt."_

With a wave of the dark Lord's hand, the bindings fell off the boy.

Keeping a clear mind was incredibly hard in the presence of Voldemort. Merely catching a glimpse of those mesmerizing red eyes made Harry feel alive, intoxicated even. Though he would deny it, he was addicted. In addition, Voldemort's appearance had the boy-who-lived gasp for breath. Yet, he forced himself to think rationally, no matter how inviting the stretched out hand looked.

 _"You tried to kill me. Four times. You killed Cedric, my parents and so many more."_ , Harry felt his voice break.

_"I regret the past and swear to you, I will never attempt anything of that sort ever again. The explanation I owe you will be given in due time. Come with me and no harm shall touch you."_

Harry's defense crumbled. The man before him was a monster, yet he could not go back to the emptiness he felt. How could he ever think to be able to live with it in the first place? _'_ _I am sorry, Mum, Dad, Cedric'_ were his thoughts as he stepped forward to the cold-hearted murder, _'I simply cannot go on like this'_

The cool hand felt soothing as he grasped it. Voldemort's long, spidery fingers wrapped themselves around his. The smile on the dark Lord's lips filled him with joy. He was finally where he was meant to be, after all this time.

It was his godfather's voice that interrupted the fragile and content moment between them.

"Harry! Let go of my godson, you monster!"

So the Order of the Phoenix had arrived at the scene. The boy-who-lived turned around, eyes meeting panicked ones of Sirius Black, who was running towards them, wand ready. 

"I'm sorry, Padfoot", was all Harry could whisper, as Voldemort apparated them away from the chaos.

Dead Silence took the world away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, sorry for all the time jumps. This somehow got a bit darker than planned but oh well. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, cause I'm not quite sure if I brought Harry's kind of depression without Voldemort across in the best way.
> 
> Just to recap: He realizes he can't live without Voldemort and has to go with him, even if Voldemort could kill him.


	7. Benedictus Et Affectus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup, sorry this took so long.  
> I wrote a HarryMort Soulmate AU called Morsmordre, if you wanna check it out... hahaha. (Just so you know, it is not in character and has more plotholes than my life, but I just had to get it out of my head, which is why this chapter took a bit longer...)
> 
> Note: I changed the wording of the prophecy so don't be confused or enraged please :)

Hermione never thought she would witness the day in which Albus Dumbledore would lose hope. Yet, as she recounted the events of the previous hours - Harry's vision, their head over heels tumble to the ministry, the prophecy, the Death Eaters - she could clearly see the despair in those twinkling blue eyes. For the first time since she knew the headmaster, he looked his age.

"He- He took You-Know-Who's hand willingly, I think. They were speaking Parseltongue, though I imagine he threatened Harry with my death. It was how he got the prophecy", the brunette finished, hands trembling. 

She had cried for over an hour after they had gotten her out of the ministry and into the Hogwarts infirmary. For Luna, who had to be admitted to St Mungo's to cure the cuts on her body, which wouldn't stop bleeding, no matter what Madam Pomfrey tried. For Neville, who was lying in the bed adjacent to her, unconscious. For Harry, who was in the clutches of the Dark Lord. 

It had taken a double dose of Calming Draught and Tonks stroking her hair in a soothing manner to relax the girl enough for Madam Pomfrey to examine her for any damage. Molly Weasley had joined them shortly after, Ron by her side, though the healer had only reluctantly allowed visitors. Despite the estrangement between Hermione and Ron, she had hugged him fiercely, letting herself be comforted by the redhead.

Later, after Ron was forced by his mother to hurry to dinner, the Headmaster, Professors Snape and McGonagall had joined her, expressions grave, urging the girl to detail everything as well as she could remember. 

"Professor, we need to help him! You-Know-Who could be doing God knows what to Harry right now!", Hermione pleaded, refusing to think of the alternative. ~~_That Harry might be dead._~~

"As if the brat would mind", Professor Snape merely scoffed, disgust lacing his voice. Hermione could do nothing but stare in horror at the man. The gasp escaping McGonagall mirrored her own opinion of the Potions Master. 

Dumbledore's look, however, was stern as he scolded the man: "Severus, my boy, we discussed this at length. Poor Harry is subject to the manipulations of Lord Voldemort. If he indeed was taken willingly, then it is not his own mind anymore. It has been warped beyond recognition by Tom. There lies no fault with the boy."

Hermione chose to be quiet, instead of questioning the adults on their words, as they seemed to have forgotten about her existence altogether. Perhaps, she would be able to gain more information on Harry and his visions this way.

"That may be, yet I find myself wondering how one might plan a rescue mission, if the one being rescued is unwilling to be", Snape snarled.

McGonagall gasped once more: "Severus! He is a student, for God's sake, a minor! No matter what he thinks he wants, we simply cannot permit him to stay with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named! Willing or not, there has to be a rescue mission!"

"Severus, Minerva is correct. We will discuss this at length with the Order, though I would believe your position as a spy to find an end soon enough."

___________________________

It was the first time that Harry apparated, though he knew for certain that he did not enjoy this particular way of transportation. The smooth marble floor beneath his feet seemed to be moving, the opulent room spinning before his eyes, causing his stomach to churn. A cold hand on his shoulder kept the teen from falling. It took him almost ridiculously long to remember in whose grip he was.

"Where are we?", the boy croaked, as his vision stabilized. 

A large room, white walls with gold ornaments, painted ceiling. The foyer he found himself in reminded of a mixture between an old church and Buckingham pictures.

"Does it matter?", came the amused answer. Harry was not given the opportunity to reply - not that he knew what - as the Dark Lord spoke once more: "I believe there are some things we need to discuss, darling." 

A part of the teen regretted his decision to take the offered hand, to let himself be whisked away by a murderer as if he was the Prince Charming he had been waiting for. He hated himself for leaving his friends behind, especially since he was the one to cause them harm in the first place. The look of disbelief, of horror, of disgust, which his godfather had given him seemed to be imprinted into his mind, like a brand of shame. _You are guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty._

Yet, the slight brush of Voldemort's fingers against the nape of his neck made him shudder with yearning. The feeling of completeness, warmth, and light that stemmed from his connection to the man was almost enough to forget those he left behind. _Almost_.

"Sit, Harry", Voldemort interrupted Harry's whirlwind of emotions, while gesturing towards a plush armchair. 

The boy practically drowned in the soft piece of furniture, his weak knees not allowing him to resist the command. Upon taking the seat across from him, the Dark Lord placed the prophecy onto the wooden surface of the coffee table between them. Silence reigned between them. 

Massaging his temples, the teen tried to ignore the red eyes fixed on his hunched form. Why did it feel so _incredible_ to be in the presence of the most feared man of the century? What was wrong with his mind, that he could not feel the terror those red eyes evoked in the hearts of others? Why-? A light touch on his knee caused Harry's mind to resurface once more. 

"Calm yourself, darling. Your emotions are quite loud."

Harry did not even want to question why the Dark Lord felt his emotions, did not want to breach a topic that would change his world-view.

Instead, he asked weakly: "Why do you call me that?"

The light chuckle, which Voldemort gave him as an answer, sent shudders down his spine. No matter how hard he wished for it, they were not caused by disgust. 

_The dark-haired man looked divine, as a crooked grin decorated his lips_. 

_No, he looked like a monster._

"Well, you are dear to me, Harry", the man retorted. 

"Why?" Did his voice truly sound this desperate, this weak?

"You ask a question that can only be answered that is incredibly hard to explain at this point. Perhaps we should begin with this?", Tom questioned, pointing towards the prophecy in front of him. Yet, it wasn't Tom, it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't. This was not the man who Harry had trusted, who he had gotten to know in the first two years of his life. It was Voldemort. _Tom was merely a lie_.

When Harry failed to react, the Dark Lord pointed his wand at the crystal orb, murmuring "Revelio" with a soft voice. Perhaps, later, the teen would wish to never have heard the prophecy at all. However, at present, he watched in fascination, as the shadow of a woman he recognized as Professor Trelawny materialized itself above the orb. In a fleeting moment of amusement, he was reminded of the projection messages used in _Star Wars._ Alas, the humor quickly vanished upon the understanding of the prophecy. 

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches_

_Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies_

_and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not_

_and either may die at the hand of the other for neither can die while the other survives_

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."_

He was numb, his thoughts clouded. Harry was destined to kill the man in front of him, had been since birth. Yet, here he was, relishing in the feelings caused by said man. Were they even real or just another vision conjured up in his mind by the Dark Lord?

Voldemort's sinister laugh, filled with a dry humor Harry failed to understand, took him by surprise. Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of bitterness in those blood-colored eyes, those eyes that seemed to bore straight into his soul?

"The old fool has bested me once again, how surprising", the man spoke to himself rather than to Harry.

"What?", the teen questioned, feeling rather foolish.

"Allow me to explain. You see, darling, sixteen years ago, I was at the hight of my power, the most influential and talented wizard in the world. Naturally, when Severus Snape came to me with the first lines of a prophecy threatening not only my lifelong goal, but my life, I sought to eliminate the one who had the 'power to vanquish' me."

The grin accompanying these words made Harry quiver, as he once more failed to understand the humor the Dark Lord found in this situation.

"You did not know the full prophecy, nor it's verity, yet you decided to kill an infant?", Harry questioned tonelessly, shock making it incredibly hard for him to grasp the consequences of the revelation.

"I admit, it was not my proudest moment", Voldemort replied, though he did not express shame, let alone remorse. 

"Not one of your proudest moments?", the teen echoed, "You took my family, my chance at a normal life, at _happiness_ , because of a damn prophecy made by Trelawny? That woman is crazy! She predicted my brutal death at least fifty times! Give me one good reason that would justify that?"

All humor was gone from the Dark Lord's voice, as he spoke: "I was afraid to die."

It was Harry's turn to give a dry, bitter laugh, "So you decided to let others die in your stead. You truly are a monster."

"Careful, my sun. I have granted you liberties, though you are threading a thin line right now." The blazing eyes and the _darkness_ radiating from Voldemort reminded Harry who this was, what he had done, what he could do. _Cedric-dead-unseeing eyes._

Harry shrunk back into his chair, making himself as small as possible. Perhaps it was the pure, dark magic of the man, that made him quiver, perhaps it was the knowledge of what could happen to him, should he disrespect him.

"Now", the Dark Lord began once more, tone pleasant and calm once more, "allow me to explain the meaning of the prophecy to you. To my knowledge at the time, It spoke of a child with the power to kill me, born in July, whose parents I had faced in battle thrice. Without the rest of the prophecy, I falsely believed that you would be my inevitable death, despite the measures I took to avoid it. This is, where Dumbledore comes into play. You see, he had full knowledge of the prophecy, as it was spoken to him by your professor. In addition, he was aware that I knew the beginning, as Severus was not subtle in eavesdropping. There were two children who fit the criteria. You and Neville Longbottom-"

"Neville?", Harry interrupted him, "How did you know that it would be me and not Neville?"

"I didn't. I chose you because you were a half-blood."

He could have led a normal life, one without death and destruction. His parents could have been _alive_. The teen could have had a happy childhood, full of love, kisses, and hugs. His parents could have been there for him, for the important steps in his life - Birthdays, Christmases, Easters, Hogwarts acceptance letter, seeing him off at Kings' Cross station - had it not been for the prophecy and the man it spoke of. Voldemort hadn't known, had acted on a whim when he chose to end his life, instead of Neville's. 

"Alright", was all he could say. His lip was quivering.

"Harry, my worst fear is death. I would have never attempted to kill you, had I known the full prophecy", the man spoke softly, his hand once more resting on the teen's knee, thumb drawing small circles. It felt oddly comforting to Harry, yet... _He had not apologized_.

"Alright", Harry repeated, unsure what to say to the man who ruined his life.

It took Voldemort a few moments to recommence his tale: "The old fool knew that I would target you, placing your family in a safe house under the Fidelius charm. A noble action, for certain, yet he did not reveal the rest of the prophecy to me. _And either may die at the hand of the other, for neither can die while the other survives_. Had I known this, I would have never attempted to kill you. However, the man decided against sharing his knowledge. Though I am sure he only had the best for you and your family in mind, perhaps he hoped that you would be able to vanquish me once you were older. After all, only you are able to kill me. By withholding the information, your headmaster allowed the prophecy to fulfill itself. Tell me, Harry, do you know what a Horcrux is?"

Dumbledore had known. He had known and had not felt the need to tell Harry about the prophecy. He could have nullified it by revealing it, yet he didn't. To be frank, the teen did not know how to cope with this information.

"No", Harry whispered in answer to the question.

"I did not think so. After all, you are as light as they come, darling, bright as the sun." - Harry did not know how to respond to the statement, unsure whether it was an insult or compliment - "A Horcrux is created through an incredibly dark, incredibly powerful sacrificial-ritual. By killing a person, you can split your soul and lock part of it into an object. Said object anchors you to life - you cannot die unless your Horcrux is destroyed. Rarely anyone creates one, the magic is extremely taxing and the loss of one's soul is not something tolerable. I created several."

Pride filled was clearly visible in the Voldemort's face, his back straightening and chin jutting forward slightly. _Pride at killing._ Harry wondered how one could truly be afraid enough of death to sacrifice countless others to the very same thing. Once more, he was reminded that the man was not human, _but a monster_. 

"Why are you telling me this? Do you simply want to brag?", Harry wondered if he wanted to know the answer, his gut telling him that there would be no going back after the revelation.

"Perhaps, my sun, though there is relevance in the knowledge. That Halloween night 1981, I planned to create another Horcrux. I thought it quite poetic if I am being truthful, using the death of my prophesized vanquisher to bind myself to life. However, I underestimated Lily Potter and her love for her only son. Her sacrifice caused my curse to turn on me, resulting in the loss of my body. For a short moment, I was merely a soul, I saw the world in a different way and you- Your soul was beautiful." Voldemort admitted the last part quietly, as though he was in awe.

Harry did not think as he placed his own hand upon the one resting on his right knee. Had he realized his actions, he would have been repulsed. After all, he listened to a man describing the murder of his parents. Yet, the touch calmed him, grounded him as he awaited the truth that would follow. Voldemort smiled at him, an honest and disarming smile, and for a short moment, Harry once more thought of him as Tom. Tom, who laced his finger with Harry's, both of them leaning towards one another.

"I was entranced by your soul, it was simply exquisite, urging me to reach out. The part of my soul that had split off- entered you, for a lack of better expression. Yet, since a body cannot hold more than once soul, a part of your soul left your body and merged with my own soul. With the scar, I marked you as my equal to the world. With my soul, I marked you as my equal to myself. We are each other's Horcruxes. Unable to die while the other lives, unable to die at anything but the other's hand. Immortal. Essentially, we are what you would call Soulmates, connected by soul and mind."

The gleam in the red eyes, the hunger, made Harry uneasy. He ripped his hand away, as if he had burned himself, standing up abruptly. His fingers buried themselves in his hair, pulling forcefully enough to make it hurt. _It couldn't be, couldn't, couldn't_. 

A part of Lord Voldemort's soul was _inside_ him, merged with his own soul. Harry was the one who kept a murderer, a madman, alive. The man could not die unless Harry killed him, but how could the teen possibly do such a feat if he knew exactly how he felt without the other? How could he knowingly separate himself from the feeling of wholeness, of completion, when all that would await him after was emptiness and pain? When he almost lost the will to live without the man who killed and killed again. 

"Harry", Voldemort's voice was calm, yet loud, penetrating the haze in Harry's mind, "Calm down. I know this is unexpected-"

"How can I calm down when my friends, the people who care about me, will forever be in danger because I am keeping you alive? They will expect me to kill you, but I- I can't! I can't! I can't! Not when-" The boy was aware that he was screaming, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a panicked frenzy. His entire body was trembling, muscles tight, and almost painful, brain barely able to form clear thoughts. 

Strong, warm arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him against a chest with a beating heart. The embrace felt better than it should have, felt far too natural and comforting, as though they were meant to fit together. 

"Breathe", Tom's deep voice murmured into his ear, "In. Out. In. Out. Very good, darling."

Slowly, Harry became aware of his surroundings once more. Tears stained his cheeks, as well as the man's robes, while sobs shook his form. Though he still felt the panic, the worry, they were somehow subdued, overpowered by the feeling of being _at home_. For a moment, in the embrace of his enemy, Harry Potter was able to forget the world. 

"Tom", Harry whispered, voice barely audible, "Thank you."

"My darling sun. I will always keep you safe."

The words made Harry feel wanted, appealing to the unloved orphan in him, the child that grew up in a dark cupboard. Who had ever kept him _safe_? Who had truly protected him? The broken child gave in, losing himself in the warm embrace. 

Long fingers carded through the strands of his hair, massaging his scalp in a manner that made him sigh with contentment. A soft grip around his chin compelled the teen to lift his head, facing the man who cost him everything, just as he gave him the world. Red eyes - Blood. Pale skin - scales. Dark hair - soft. Tom was unique and mesmerizing. Harry's breath stuttered in his lungs as his gaze met the other's. How incredibly close they were... Yet, there was no fear, only a strange sense of anticipation. 

The kiss was softer than Harry would have imagined it, softer than it had been in the dream - vision? - merely a brush of their lips against each other. Yet, it felt like his upside-down world had been shifted right-side up. In this new world, there was no murder, no dawning war, no death, no danger. Merely Tom. Harry was complete, whole, and content, almost happy. _Almost._

_Later, he would hate himself for this kiss._

______________________

"Do everything in your power to find out where Harry Potter is, what the security measures are, and how often the Dark Lord visits him. You will be the one to rescue him, Severus. Hopefully, you succeed, as we are all doomed if you fail."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg... if feel like the chapters are getting shorter...  
> I apologize. Please let me know what you think :)  
> I also think I put less feels in this chapter so tell me if I didn't mention it enough.


	8. Will I catch the twinkle inside your eye?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it :)  
> Some interaction between Harry and Voldemort

**"** What now?", Harry questioned, head buried into the Dark Lord's chest, unable to face the man of his dreams and nightmares, yet unwilling to end the embrace. 

"Perhaps a light dinner and a good night's sleep? Today must have exhausted you, my sun." There was a hint of amusement in Voldemort's voice.

"I mean it", the teen whispered quietly, "I cannot abandon my friends, not any more than I already did. At the same time... I doubt my ability to survive without you any longer."

Cool fingers tugged his head away from its position against the man. Harry was met with a brilliant smile, before the dark, silky voice deflected his internal struggle: "Let us not discuss such matters when you are barely able to keep standing. Allow me to provide you with food, a bed, and a light conversation for tonight. No politics."

The offer sounded incredibly tempting, as the boy yearned for oblivion. He wanted to forget their entwined souls, his feelings, the war, the death - _everything_. Basking in the feeling of completion, of being whole, without remembering the guilt that followed seemed like a dream come true. 

"That sounds lovely", Harry managed with a smile of his own, whereupon he was gently nudged into an immense dining room. The table in the middle, the ornamented chairs, the paintings at the world, and the candlesticks on the walls reminded the teen of Hampton Court Palace, which he had visited once on a school trip. 

"Sit, darling", Voldemort commanded, gallantly pulling out a chair for him, and then, "Mitsy, bring us dinner." 

The house-elf that appeared at the harshly voiced order was an emaciated, grey-skinned creature with wide, blue eyes. She bowed deeply enough for her forehead to graze the floor, before popping away once more. 

Taking the seat across from Harry, Voldemort surprised the teen with his ability to small-talk: "Your friends are very dear to you, are they not? What could they possibly have done to merit the loyalty of the savior? After all, you decided to forgive that godfather of yours for being an escaped fugitive." The words were dripping in sarcasm, though it did not strike him as malicious, merely... _teasing_?

Where had his life taken a wrong turn, that he found himself seated at a table with his enemy, a murdering Dark Lord, being mocked? _No_ , he told himself, _tonight, I am in the company of the smart, charming, and handsome Tom._ There was no Voldemort tonight. 

"Sirius is amazing", Harry grinned, thoughts of his godfather cheering him up every time, "I mean, since he got out of Azkaban, he's been there for me, though he couldn't take me from my aunt and uncle without being proven innocent. Still, even when he was on the run, he always found time to answer my questions and help me through difficult times. Especially my fourth year would have been impossible without him."

"And your friends?", Lord Voldemort questioned, distracting Harry from the dark turn his thoughts had taken.

"My closest friend is Hermione. She is the brightest witch of our age, helped me out a great during our study sessions for the O.W.L.s, though she is better at the theory of spells, she can master most of them in no time. During the summer, she sends me care packages with sugar-free snacks. Mr. and Mrs. Granger are dentists, so they never buy her anything sugary. The first time we met, I thought of her as some stuck-up know-it-all, but after the Troll incident...", Harry trailed off at the thought, unsure whether it was wise to bring this up.

"Ah, I remember her. The Muggle-born with arguably worse hair than yours?", the man saved him with a smirk.

Harry snorted at the comment. "No, no, no", he objected with a grin, "You should have seen her at the Yule Ball, with Viktor Krum. Apparently, it took her hours, but her hair was smooth and tamed. She can look normal when she tries! I, on the other hand, am a slave to this mess" - he pointed at his hair, which stood up in all directions - "No matter who tries or how often, it never lies flat. Aunt Petunia once tried to cut. She got so frustrated, that she decided to just shave it all off, leaving only a patch to cover the scar. To her horror and my glee, it grew back overnight."

Voldemort's laugh was mesmerizing, as was the way he threw his head back. At this moment, the composed Dark Lord turned into Tom. _~~And Harry was smitten.~~_

"I suppose, you will always stay a hedgehog", the man chuckled, causing Harry to splutter. 

"It's not that bad!"

To prove his point, the teen ran his fingers through the strands, trying to smoothen them. It backfired spectacularly, the hair clearly mocking him. Tom laughed harder, leading to an embarrassed flush on the younger's cheeks. Thankfully, Harry was rescued by the sudden appearance of plates in front of both of them. 

"What is this?", the boy asked, staring at the unknown, pie-like dish in front of him in wonder.

"Tavë Kosi", was the confident retort, "It's a traditional meat dish from Albania, made with lamb, eggs and yogurt. I grew quite fond of it during my travels through the country. Try it."

Harry complied, tentatively taking a small bite of the food. His eyes widened at the taste.

"This is amazing!"

"I'm glad you like it", Tom smiled, before tucking into his own meal. 

It was the teen's turn to strike up a conversation: "So you went to Albania? When?" To his own surprise, he was genuinely interested in learning more about his temporary host.

"A few years after graduating from Hogwarts. I had just quit my job and decided to search for Ravenclaw's lost diadem, which was rumored to be in the Albanian forest near Elbasan. To be honest, I did not enjoy my stay there all that much, but it was a necessity."

"Did you find it?"

"Yes."

Something told Harry that he did not want to know what happened to the diadem, so he quickly asked the second question concerning Tom's past: "Where did you work before? You seemed to be quite a good student, with being Prefect and everything."

Voldemort laughed dryly with something akin to bitterness in his voice, before he answered: "I was the best in my year. They told me to go into politics, though I was not interested in anything of the sort at that time. Without a Pureblood family and it's connections it is incredibly hard to amount to anything in politics, as you do not have seats at the Wizengamot. Believe it or not, I instead applied for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post at Hogwarts immediately after graduation. The professor wanted to retire and I was interested in the subject. Amando Dippet, the headmaster in my time, rejected me due to my age, though he offered me the post in the following year, should I still be interested. To survive the following year, I took the first job I could find, in the belief it would only be temporary. A small shop in Diagon Alley -Borgin and Burkes - I believe it still exists. Unfortunately, Dumbledore became headmaster that year. Obviously, he denied my application."

It surprised Harry and was odd to him all the same, to know that the Lord Voldemort had not always planned to become a Dark Lord. Of course, that thought should have been obvious, as it was unlikely that the man would announce his career wish as 'greatest Dark sorcerer of all time' during the consulting meeting in his fifth year. Still, it was surprising to see someone, who threw Unforgivables left and right be interested in teaching Defence against the very same curses to a bunch of teenagers. 

"What did you want to do after graduation, darling?", the question broke Harry's silent contemplation.

"I guess I always thought of becoming an Auror?", he responded with a blush, "Though I doubt I will be able to after my O.W.Ls. I'm pretty sure I botched my Potion's exam and Snape only accepts Students who attain an 'Outstanding'. Furthermore, Umbridge made it crystal clear that the ministry will not hire me, not with my claim of your resurrection and the incident with the Dementors. So I guess, I will have to look for something else."

"Barty did mention that you very exceptionally good at Defence", the Dark Lord mused, eyes boring into Harry's, "Though I would not have expected you to become an Auror."

"Why? What do you think I would do?" He defiantly stuck his chin out. 

Tom, however, merely seemed amused: "Aurors do not only use light spells. While it is true that they have the authorization to do so, they use the exact same spells as my own followers. They do not hesitate to cast lethal spells in a duel, or the Cruciatus curse as a method of interrogation. I do not believe your morals would allow you any of that. After all, your preferred spells are 'Expelliarmus' and 'Stupor', both of which can be countered by a simple shield. Forgive me, darling, but you would not last a minute against a Dark Wizard out for your blood."

Harry dropped his fork in anger, voice raised: "I escaped you numerous times and you are as Dark as they come! Just because I'm not in Slytherin, doesn't mean I can't cast Dark spells!"

All humor left Voldemort's expression, leaving Harry with the painful realization, that he was not here with a friend, but a Dark Lord - his enemy and the murderer of Cedric and his parents. Had it not been for the connection between them and the bliss of completion, the teen would have been terrified of the glint in the man's eyes. Still, it did not stop him from feeling a twinge of fear, as Lord Voldemort spoke in a voice, that reminded him of the calm before the storm.

"The first time you survived was because of your mother, the other times because I did not wish your death. Had I been set upon killing you, you would be dead by now, killed a curse from Quirrel's wand when you were eleven. Yet, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. You believe you can cast curses? Mitsy!"

For a second, Harry was confused as to why the Dark Lord would call his house-elf, then it dawned upon him. 

"No", he whispered in horror, eyes wide.

Voldemort gave him a cold stare, that sent chills down his spine. Showing no reaction to Harry's plea, he pulled the teen's wand out of his robes, handing it over. 

"Cast an Unforgivable on her", he demanded almost softly enough to mask the cruelty of those words.

One look at the shaking elf, whose eyes were wide and filled with fear and tears, almost made Harry empty his stomach. Guilt and anger fought a vicious war in his heart. 

"She's innocent!", he knew he should not shout at the Dark Lord, knew that, while he would not be harmed, the same could not be said of Mitsy. 

An almost gentle look decorated the handsome face, as the cruel explanation came: "An Auror does not always chase criminals. The best of them are those who can put emotions aside, no matter the target. Do you think your father never cast curses without asking questions? No, he and Black were some of my most dangerous adversaries. Unpredictable and ruthless."

No, it couldn't be. Harry knew Sirius, knew the good-hearted nature of his godfather. He remembered the hugs, the comforting words, the soothing actions after his nightmares. Sirius would never harm an innocent being, no matter what would happen. No, the man would not harm anyone unless he was forced to in a duel. Yet... _a wand pointed at the sniveling form of Peter Pettigrew, former friend, with the promise of death_. His godfather would have killed an unarmed man without a second thought. Still, Pettigrew had been a traitor and-

"No", the boy whispered once more, as his shaking hand laid his wand down on the table, "No, Sirius would never harm innocents." _He wouldn't_.

"Fine", the word spoken in a light tone shocked Harry, "cast a curse on me, then. You know I am far from innocent, know who I have killed to get to where I am today. Curse me, torture me, Kill me if you can. I give you the opportunity for revenge."

The teen's eyes widened as he glanced up at the red eyes, finding only sincerity in them. There was no threat, no anger, merely the possibility of revenge, as long as Harry used an Unforgivable curse. His fingers gripped the smooth wood of his wand once more. How could he not take this opportunity?

He remembered Cedric, with his grey eyes, _staring unseeing into the sky_. Even now, he could clearly see the sick glow of the champion's skin, as it was illuminated by gree, green, green light, an image that haunted his nightmares. Amos Diggory, as he crouched over the corpse of his son, neverending tears falling, as grey eyes stared into the night sky. Harry recalled the night his parents died, the voices he heard whenever Dementors were in the vicinity. _Not Harry, please not Harry_.

This was his opportunity to revenge them all, to ease the guilt he felt for leaving with the Dark Lord. The boy's hands shook as he lifted his hand, wand pointing at the man, who ruined his life. A simple curse, once word, three syllables. _Crucio._

Yet, when he looked into those blood-red eyes, those terrifying and mesmerizing eyes, when he felt the connection between them, he knew he would not be able to cast the curse. Not, when he could feel his soul merging with Voldemort's, becoming entangled, until he did not know where he ended and the other began. If the teen was unable to live without the Dark Lord, how could he ever harm him?

How could he ever harm a human being, when he knew what the pain felt like? 

"Come now, darling, surely you can kill the man who is responsible for everything wrong in your life? How can you expect to become an Auror, if you cannot even kill me, a man responsible for a Wizarding War?", the taunting words were accompanied by a smirk, dark and twisted.

Harry gripped his wand, trying to steady himself. His muscles were tense, as his entire body shook. He felt the tears well up in his eyes, the familiar sting a telltale sign. 

Ignoring the emotional turmoil in his young guest, Voldemort continued: "How do you expect to be safe in this world, when you are unable to hurt me?"

What would Sirius say if he saw him now, unable to cast a single spell at the man who killed his parents? What would Dumbledore say, knowing that Harry was the only one able to kill the Dark Lord? How could he ever protect those he loved from the Dark Lord, when he could not even do this? _A simple curse_. 

It was almost pathetic, how Harry broke down for the second time in a day. Tears began flowing, shaking hands attempting to wipe them away. After the first sob, the boy, who looked so much younger than he truly was, dropped his wand onto the carpeted floor. _He could not do it_.

In a matter of seconds, Voldemort was by his side, taking the teen's hands in his own. 

"Harry, I told you once before, I will always protect you. If you stay with me, no harm will touch you. Lord Voldemort always keeps his word. You are destined to be mine, in every way, and I take care of what is mine. Being an Auror is too dangerous for someone as precious, as light as you."

Years later, when he finally found happiness in his life, Harry would remember this day and recognize the manipulation of the Dark Lord. However, as the broken and torn child he was, Harry fell into the arms of the only man who he believed to be able to protect him, without expecting anything in return. 

"I will show you to your room", Voldemort whispered, picking Harry up in his arms. The boy barely weighed anything. 

It felt nice, being carried by Voldemort, being enveloped in strong arms. He was almost sixteen, almost an adult, yet the events of the last twenty-four hours made him think of himself as an incapable, irresponsible child. Perhaps that was the reason for the teen's lack of protest at being carried through the corridors of an extravagant mansion, perhaps he merely wanted to relish in the completion of their bond, in the warmth that bloomed in his chest whenever he was in the vicinity of Lord Voldemort.

The room that would be his for an uncertain amount of time was lavishly furnished with an enormous bed, which reminded him of his fourposter bed at Hogwarts, though it had dark-green curtains and black sheets. A dresser stood in the corner, decorated with silver accents. Apart from the entrance, there were two doors, one of which Harry assumed to lead to the bathroom. 

"My rooms are through that door, should you need anything", the Dark Lord explained the existence of the second door, without the teen having to ask, "try to get some sleep."

Harry was laid down on the bed, his eyes immediately closing. Only now, in midst of the softest bed he had ever been in, he acknowledged the exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours, allowing himself to drift off. 

Why was he already missing the soft touch of the man, the caress of his fingers against his skin, the brush of their lips against one another? Was it truly only a result of his soul's yearning for completion, or was he mesmerized by the man himself? It scared Harry that he was unable to tell the difference, that the mere touch of a man who screamed danger with every action sent the teen into a bliss of sensations. No matter the reason, it was undeniable that Harry James Potter was hooked on the drug that was the Dark Lord. 

His last thought was that the door had not been locked.

_Apparently Lord Voldemort knew that the Boy-Who-Lived would not be able to leave the terrifying wonder that was their entwined souls._

________________________

Voldemort closed the door to his sun's bedroom with a sigh. The retraction of both the prophecy and the Boy-Who-Lived had gone smoothly, yet he was put aback by his conversation with the boy. Although Harry had accepted his offer, leaving for Malfoy Manor at his side, it was apparent that there was an unreasonable amount of loyalty to those unworthy fools in his life. As a result of lacking Pureblood education, the teen had chosen alliances with Mudbloods, Blood-traitors, and appallingly biased wizards of the Light - a fact that Voldemort hoped to correct by exposing him to the influence of the heirs of his followers. Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy came to mind, as both had enough brain cells to keep their mouth shut.

With sufficient time, the Dark Lord knew, he would be the only one his darling sun held any loyalty to. Each passing second led to an increased entwinement of their souls. Already, long-term or -distance separation would be painful for the both of them. 

However, at present, the mere existence of Harry's friends and family, even the Order of the Phoenix, posed a threat to the boy's obedience towards him. For a moment at the dinner table, Voldemort had feared his sun would be able to curse him, that the resentment he had been taught from the moment he stepped foot into the wizarding world, had outweighed the bond between the two. 

Worryingly, Voldemort once more found that he had gambled, a frequent idiocy he committed, whenever Harry Potter was involved. His darling seemed to have the unnerving habit of acting irrationally and unpredictably. Despite the risk, the lesson the Dark Lord taught the Boy-Who-Lived had been a necessity, as it had been the first step in a long road of persuasion and manipulation. 

Lord Voldemort could not allow the teen to continue on the road he had gone down so far. Thus, a return to Hogwarts was off the table. Now, that he, at last, had Harry in his grasp, the man would not let him go ever again. It would be difficult to convince him to abandon his home and friends, yet the Dark Lord was not the Heir of Slytherin for nothing. He was cunning enough to accomplish the impossible within the following two months. 

After all, Voldemort needed his sun by side to win the commencing war. And, if he was honest, he could no longer escape the addiction that was Harry's bright, innocent soul. Perhaps he was never able and certainly unwilling to do so.

"Narcissa", the man ordered upon entering the west-wing of Malfoy Manor, "give me your arm."

The witch seemed to have aged in the past hours, her face looking gaunt and the dark rings under her eyes were testament to her exhaustion. Yet, she held herself high, looking every bit like the powerful Pureblood she was, despite the knowledge of her husband's capture. Nevertheless, she complied with the order, pulling up the sleeve of her expensive and modern robe.

Pressing his wand against the Dark Mark on her forearm, Lord Voldemort summoned his most trusted, the Inner Circle, most of which aided in the capture of his sun. It could not have taken longer than two minutes, before all of them took their seats around the table.

"I commend you for your duty, you have done well today", the man began from his seat at the head of the table, "You will be rewarded in due time. Those who were caught in the aftermath will be freed from Azkaban as a reward, though a week should suffice as punishment for their stupidity. Know, that Harry Potter has been dealt with. He is no longer a risk to our plans, nor is he a priority" - he ignored the glances his followers exchanged in surprise and satisfaction. It was best to let them believe in his sun's death. Only those bound by blackmail, unbreakable vows, and the Dark Mark would be allowed to know more information, should it be necessary. 

"Severus", Voldemort addressed the Potions Master directly, "did the Order have its little emergency meeting yet?"

"No, my Lord", was the respectful answer, "I was present at the questioning Potter's Mudblood friend concerning the events at the Ministry. Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood are still unconscious. The girl does not seem to know any useful information, merely that they acted in response to a vision the boy had. Dumbledore is planning a rescue mission, though it is likely to fail, given the lack of information on the whereabouts of their savior. Granger believes that Potter was blackmailed into going with you, my Lord."

Voldemort smirked at the subtle questions. ' _Where is Potter?'_ and ' _Why did he go willingly?'_ Severus had always been excellent in manipulating others to answer unasked questions. Sometimes, when he was in a particularly good mood, the Dark Lord would indulge him, though this information was far too important to trust one who frequented the company of Albus Dumbledore, no matter where the Potions Master's loyalties lied. 

"Report to me after the Order meeting. It will be amusing to watch esteemed headmaster Albus Dumbledore chase a ghost." He did not lose the smirk, as he implied the Boy-Who-Lived's demise. This would make the war so much more interesting indeed.

"There will be a raid soon, I expect you all to be ready throughout the next week. Dorian, Narcissa, sent me your children. It is time for young Theodore and young Draco to be welcomed into our ranks. I have need for their services", Voldemort dismissed his followers. 

With glee, the Dark Lord observed the panic pass over Narcissa's face. Her child was everything to her, her weakness and her strength all at once. It had always marveled him, how one could value the life of another more than his own. Yet, he began to understand, when he looked at his darling.

The woman approached him carefully: "My Lord", the tremor in her voice was only barely audible, for which he commended Lady Malfoy, "may I ask what you require Draco for?"

"You may not", he answered curtly, before turning towards the door, "I am content, Lady Malfoy, which is the only reason why you are not withering on the floor for questioning my motives. Perhaps young Draco will pay for your impertinence."

Yes, he was sick for feeling amused at her suffering. He could not find it in himself to care. 

__________________________

The silence weighed heavily upon the occupants of Number 12 Grimmauld Place's kitchen. Schock, mixed with horror had quieted the frantic shouting that had reigned mere minutes ago. Once more, Severus Snape was the bringer of bad news, though these were worse than ever before. It was Sirius who broke the silence.

"No", a whisper at first, which morphed into a scream, "No! He's not dead! I would know if he was dead! I would feel it, I-!"

"Sirius", Lupin interjected, hand resting on the Other's shoulder in a comforting manner, "it will do no good to react irrationally. You need to focus, keep a level head. For Harry's sake."

"I can't, Remmy! My godson is, in the best scenario, prisoner of Voldemort." None of them dared to speak of the worst-case, especially not after what Severus had implied.

Dumbledore spoke, at last, voice heavy: "Harry Potter is not dead. The blood-wards around Privet Drive still stand, though they are weak. Without Harry's presence at his home, they will collapse soon, no matter his well-being. Until then, however, we are able to tell, whether he is alive or not. Severus, may I have a word, please?"

Both men stood, walking towards the entrance hall. Upon the erection of Privacy Wards, Severus spoke with a concerned and appalled expression on his face: "Surely, you don't think that the Dark Lord is using Potter for... that."

"I cannot be sure, Severus. However, it is certain that he has an unhealthy obsession with the boy. And after the visions, he sent him last year... Tom has always been sick in some sense. Perhaps this is a new level of perversion and obsession. We can only hope that Harry stays strong and brave, like the Gryffindor he is." The twinkle in the blue eyes had saddened with the dark thoughts.

For the first time, Severus thanked the gods for Potters almost stupid bravery. Perhaps, it would aid him to survive whatever horror lay ahead of him.

"Do you harbor any suspicions, as to what the Dark Lord needs from two of my students?", Dumbledore questioned in a worried tone. 

"None at all, Albus. Both their families are in the Lord's favor, which makes a punishment unlikely. Unless he plans to initiate a coup against you, there is not much use the two have, not with their age and experience - or rather lack thereof."

"Thank you, my boy."

______________________

**Break-in at the Ministry - Boy-Who-Lived missing?**

On the afternoon of the 24th of June, a group of students broke into the Department of Mysteries, Ministry. The four students - Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood - left the grounds of Hogwarts only minutes after the disappearance of High Inquisitor and Headmistress Dolores Umbridge, who still has not resurfaced. The Boy-Who-Lived was the clear officiator of the Break-in, though it is unknown how a group of 'mediocre students' (Severus Snape - Potions Professor at Hogwarts) accomplished such a feat.

Upon entering a non-disclosed location, the group encountered a number of Death Eaters, most of which were found to be influential employees of the Ministry. The ensuing fight caused the admittance of Mrs. Lovegood to St. Mungos, and the disappearance of Harry Potter. 

Under questioning, Corban Yaxley revealed his willing association with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, who ordered him to steal an item out of the Department of Mysteries. The same was done by Lucius Malfoy and Avery Jr, who, in addition, revealed their assistance to numerous fugitives, such as Bellatrix Lestrange. Although only three Death Eaters were captured, the original number appears to be 11, most of which were known criminals or Ministry workers.

While it is unclear whether or not You-Know-Who truly is back, as he remains hidden, it is certain that all the suspects gave the same reason for their motives: 'Our Lord ordered it.' The Minister suspects there to be an imposter using Albus Dumbeldore's tale of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as a platform to gather the followers of the Dark Lord. Further information on the theory, as well as an interview with Cornelius Fudge, can be found on page 7.

In the aftermath of Dolores Umbridge's disappearance and in the light of increased Death Eater activity, a formal apology from the ministry and various newspapers have been issued to Mr. Dumbledore, as he was correct with his assumptions of rising Dark witches and wizards. He has been reinstated as headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

The Ministry urges everyone to be vigilant in light of these events. Concrete advice to proper protectionary measures given by the Auror Department can be found on page 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, tell me what you think :)  
> I don't have anything else to do so... here I go again


	9. Talk to me about War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys,   
> Just so you know: Harry is willing enough to let Voldemort kiss him, but he wouldn't initiate it, because of his torn feelings on the entire matter.

How do you go on when your world turns upside down, but you are still right-side-up? Compassion, Harry had always thought it his greatest strength, his own superpower. Perhaps it was his greatest weakness instead. The inability to act against his own morals had never struck him as something to be ashamed of. However, after merely a few hours in the company of Lord Voldemort, he felt as though he was powerless. He could not cast a curse that would inflict suffering, yet he conversed with his enemy. When had his morals abandoned him, he wondered. 

_Greatness cannot be measured in good or evil, only in power._ Beautiful cursive written in a diary what seemed like a lifetime ago. He had been so convinced of their falsehood, had believed the world to be painted in shades of white and black. No matter how Harry twisted and turned the events of the past day, he could no longer think of himself as strong due to his righteousness. Harry recalled the few times he had spoken to Albus Dumbledore, how the man had depicted Love as the greatest power, even above the darkest of curses. 

His mother's love had saved him - once upon a time. Yet, all the love in his heart would protect neither him, nor the world from the darkness that was Lord Voldemort. The prophecy spoke of the only being able to defeat the Dark Lord - spoke of a boy, of Harry Potter. Was love indeed a weakness that would cause the victory of a murdering madman - a man who had not seemed so insane after all? Though Harry did not have amorous feelings towards the man - he refused to accept anything else - he undeniably held _some_ kind of emotion towards him, one he was not quite comfortable enough with to examine it further. 

For what felt like hours, the boy stayed in the soft bed, the covers bunched up around his legs, contemplating his new reality until it all became too much. Refusing to continue wrecking his world-view, Harry decided to take a cold shower, hoping to numb not only his body, but his emotions. It worked partially well, leaving him shivering and with incoherent thoughts.

Towel wrapped around his hips, the teen decided to forgo the turmoil in his head in favor of locating fresh clothes. Though he assumed this to be a guest room, hope was a never-ending spring. Apparently, he was in luck, as he found a variety of robes, shirts, pants, and trousers in the dresser, all of which were of wizarding fashion, as opposed to the jeans and T-shirts Harry favored. They fit him well enough, if a bit too wide at the shoulders and hips.

Once dressed, Harry found himself wondering what was expected of him. Was he allowed to leave his room, or should he wait for someone to fetch him? Being the Griffydor he was, the teen opted for the former option, carefully approaching the door. Though he was certain that it would be unlocked, there always was the possibility of wards. However, nothing happened as he twisted the doorknob and stepped out into a corridor. Right or left? As both sides appeared to be the same, the teen chose to follow a muggle saying out of a book: _Left it's the side of the heart_. 

The paintings at the walls whispered behind their hands as he walked past, stares unnerving him. The wizards and witches depicted were haughty and arrogant, with their high held chins and the eyes full of judgment...

Harry's luck seemed to be continuous, as he somehow found his way into the dining room he had been in yesterday. Inside, Voldemort was seated in front of breakfast that would put Hogwarts' to shame, a newspaper in front of him. The resemblance to the stereotype of a British member of the nobility caused Harry to grin. All that was missing were the slippers and bathrobe. 

"Good morning, darling", the silky voice sent shivers down his spine, an effect which did not seem to cease as time went on.

"Morning", Harry mumbled, suddenly feeling taciturn.

"Sit."

The teen obeyed the command, taking the seat he had occupied the previous night opposite of the Dark Lord. 

"A letter arrived for you this morning. I am assuming that the Order is getting desperate if they are sending you post", the words were accompanied by a chuckle, though the teen failed to see the humor in the situation once more. 

He accepted the letter handed to him. _Unopened_. To be frank, the Dark Lord had not struck him as one to mind other's privacy, though the boy certainly wouldn't complain. With a glance at the address, which simply held his name, Harry recognized the handwriting to be Hermione's. His fingers shook as he pried envelope open, pulling out the piece of parchment.

_Harry,_

_I hope this letter finds you and no one else. We are all worried._

_Luna is in St. Mungo's and Neville is still out of it. I am alright, shock aside._

_I prayed for the first time since I was eleven yesterday, prayed for your safety._

_If you can... If you are still alive, don't lose hope._

_Don't give up._

_Hermione_

Guilt washed over him like a tsunami, momentarily taking his breath away with its sheer force. He knew what Hermione thought of deities, knew her skepticism concerning anything that defied the rules of logic. The fact that she had followed the faith her parents introduced her to showed that she was desperate. _They thought him dead_. Killed by the man he was sitting across from. 

Luna was in St. Mungo's. Neville was unconscious. Harry was the one to lead them into danger, without thinking about the consequences for a moment. Now a fourteen-year-old girl's life was in danger because of _him_. Due to his inability to differentiate dream from reality. Perhaps it would be better if he was indeed dead. At least then, he would be unable to put them on the line anymore. 

"It's not from the Order", Harry stated, voice shaking, eyes stinging, "Do you have parchment and a quill?"

"You will not answer", was the nonchalant answer, which made the teen gape. The Dark Lord turned back toward his newspaper. 

Harry's brows drew together. "Why?", he questioned defiantly.

"The Order knows that you left with me. At the moment, they are wrecking their pathetic heads to procure a rescue plan, which will fail miserably, as they know neither your location, nor your willingness to follow me. In a few weeks, a month at most, the world will think you dead, which will aid my plans greatly", Voldemort sounded almost uncaring, as if he was discussing the weather and not inferencing the boy's death.

The fifteen-year-old recoiled as if struck. For a few, foolish moments, he had believed Tom to care for him. Alas, he was no more than a puppet in the Dark Lord's machinations. The realization made him quiver. 

"Am I a prisoner?" He simply had to know, had to know if he was still able to leave, if this was still his choice. 

"Do you wish to leave?"

Red eyes, piercing into his. Suddenly, the feeling their souls entwining was more pronounced than ever, causing Harry to shudder with the intensity of it. Subconsciously, Harry knew that it was Voldemort's doing - that he could influence the extent to which they connected. Despite his knowledge, he was unable to ignore the completion and the warmth blossoming in his chest. His heart was beating frantically against his ribcage, as though it wanted to break free. 

It was then, with a yearning heart and soul, that Harry recognized his inability to ever leave the man who held a part of his very essence. 

"No", he muttered, eyes leaving the other's ruby depths. His shaking hands clung to the edge of the table in a search for stability. 

It seemed as though he was a prisoner in a very different sense, trapped not by a cage, but by his emotions. _Yes_ , he admitted bitterly, _I am weak. Unable to choose those who loved and cared for me over the murderer of my parents_. All because his soul called to Lord Voldemort.

"Excellent", said Dark Lord had the audacity to comment, "now that we have established this, there are some ground rules I ask you to follow. First of all: There are other occupants here, which is why I strongly recommend you stay within this wing, lest you wish for me to - shall we say dispose of them?"

Harry blanched at the implication, before interjecting: "Where are we anyway?"

"Malfoy Manor." A smirk accompanied the words.

Some part of Harry, the one he strongly suspected to stem from the other man's soul, wished for him to defy the command and relish in the knowledge of the Malfoys' punishment. After all they had done, the teen did not harbor any positive feelings towards them. Yet, he could not follow the impulse. Despite Malfoy Jr's relentless bullying and his father's involvement in the Chamber of Secrets incident, they did not deserve the Dark Lord's wrath.

"Fine", he conceded.

Voldemort graced him with an infuriating smirk, before carrying on: "Rule number two: We will have dinner and breakfast here together, unless either of us is indisposed with a serious issue. You can spend the time between those meals anywhere you wish, though I recommend you use the library and my private study to expand your knowledge. Finally: The school year will be over tomorrow, at which point Draco will come home over the holidays. I expect you to spend some time with him."

It was that last rule, which took Harry by surprise. 

"Malfoy? Why on earth do you want me to socialize with _Malfoy_?", the teen exclaimed, still not quite convinced he had heard correctly. Surely, Voldemort knew of the rivalry between them, having taught Slytherin and Gryffindor first years back in the day. 

There was the hint of an exasperated smile on the man's face, as he reasoned: "Draco will be able to teach you everything there is to know about being heir to the Noble House of Potter _and_ the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, since frankly, you have not been acting the way one is supposed to in public."

"What is that supposed to mean?", the teen could barely believe the nerve the Dark Lord to call _him_ impolite when he was the one to go on killing sprees whenever the mood struck him. 

"It means that, though you are polite enough, you lack the knowledge of Pureblood etiquette, which is crucial to upholding the public image of one with an importance such as yourself."

"The public can sod off!", Harry exclaimed, frustrated, and perhaps somewhat insulted, "They already think me mad or attention-seeking for claiming your return! Why would I care for anything they think of me?"

The red eyes were blazing like Hellfire, though Voldemort remained calm.

"Think, darling. What do you suppose will happen, once they realize their error? Rest assured, it will not be long until they do."

The teen froze, contemplating the consequences of the Dark Lord's return. There would be a second war, just as bloody and fatal as the first one, that was a certainty. Dumbledore, knowing the exact wording of the Prophecy, would expect Harry to be the one to kill Voldemort. In consequence, the Order of the Phoenix would do the same thing, though all of them would support him. They would not care for his feelings in the matter, nor his inability to go on without the murderous man, urging the Boy-Who-Lived to kill him. 

Harry raised his gaze to glance into blood-colored eyes. There was no derision in them, nor was there pity - both emotions with which Harry was mostly regarded these days. The quiet understanding was comforting. He wanted to reach out, to take the man's hand in his, to feel their souls sing in completion. Of course, he fought the urge.

Defiantly, he jutted his chin out. "Dumbledore will expect me to vanquish you, though I fail to see how 'Pureblood etiquette' is relevant in this situation."

Voldemort chuckled - a deep, dark sound, which made Harry bit his lip. Yet, he ignored the teen's protest in favor of a piece of toast, on which he spread strawberry jam. Even in something as menial as preparing breakfast, the Dark Lord was systematic and meticulous, making sure to cover every corner of the toast. Involuntary, the sable-haired boy smiled. It was a surreal situation.

Only after having bitten off and consumed a bite of the bread, Voldemort explained Harry's miscalculation: "Darling, despite the accuracy of your words, Dumbledore and his little Resistance will not be the only ones to expect you to fight. Once the public becomes aware of my immortality, they will turn to the one who vanquished me the last time - you. The media will retract any slander they performed on your name and reputation, in order to sing your praises. Everyone will want you to win the war for them, my sun, so that none of them will have to lift a finger."

The man spoke the truth, he realized. Indeed, the world's morale and willingness to solve its own problems was low enough, that they would load them onto the shoulders of a teenager.

"Still, if the public expects me to fight for them, why would I give a damn about how I appear to them?", Harry protested considerably weaker. Perhaps he just wanted to finally win an argument between them.

However, the wolfish grin spreading across Voldemort's lips assured him otherwise.

"Ah, there it is, darling", the man paused, clearly satisfied with himself, "you will not fight me, as we already established. Instead, you will use the unique position you hold to rally the mindless public onto my side."

Perhaps, Harry mused, he should vehemently protest this statement. As a Gryffindor, he should yell into the other's face, that he could stuff his plans where the sun didn't shine. However, as a Gryffindor, he would also be expected to fight against a tyrant. 

Instead, the teen cast his eyes downwards, as he quietly spoke: "I can't knowingly encourage anti-Muggleborn policies, nor can I support the bias you are attempting to establish." He sounded incredibly tired, his strength dissolving in a matter of seconds, when fighting with the man who held his soul.

Voldemort's hand reached across the table to interlock his fingers with the teen's, as he questioned: "Harry, darling, do you know what exactly my policies are entailing?"

Confused, Harry looked at him. The skin contact, in addition to the sensation of completion, distracted him.

"I- I guess I don't know the details", he finally confessed, "but I know that you want to overthrow the ministry and become a dictator. Your raids show that you want Muggles dead and you clearly dislike Muggle-borns."

"Mostly correct", the words were accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his hand, "however, this is quite a rough summary. Allow me to clear things up for you, darling. I do not care for Muggles, as you already said, which is why my ultimate goal is the separation of our two worlds. Muggles are barbaric, ignorant, and cruel towards things they fail to understand with their simple minds. Both you and I know it to be the truth. Quite frankly, I am surprised that you still hold loyalty towards them."

"It doesn't matter what my families faults are", Harry whispered, "most Muggles are innocent, law-abiding citizens. I have heard of the raids, have read history books. Does it even matter to you, whose life you end? What crime did those children commit, in your eyes, apart from being born without magic?"

The dark look crossing Voldemort's face was disconcerting, as were the thinning lips. 

When he spoke, his voice was emotionless and factual: "They are abominations, all of them. Do you know how many wars there were in the non-magical world in the last century? Wizards like Dumbledore, who loves Muggles despite anything, gloss over the brutalities and the crimes. Did you know about Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945? Muggles launched a project called 'Little Boy' - nuclear weapons - killing 210,000 people, including children and civilians. You have no right to call me a monster, if you simultaneously protect those barbarians. Mark my words, Harry, I do not enjoy spilling magical blood, though I will go to unknown lengths to protect this world."

"How are you unable to see the similarities between your actions and those of the monsters you just described? Had you the possibility to eradicate all Muggles through a single spell, would you use it? The desire to protect our world does not give you the right to extinguish an entire race!" 

Harry was shaking, breath coming in harsh huffs. He could not comprehend how Voldemort thought himself above the dictators from the other world, when he acted the exact same way. It did not matter, what the reasons were or how justified they appeared - the teen simply could not condone murder or an entire population. 

Voldemort did not answer, though the silence was enough for Harry to understand. 

He spoke almost softly: "We learned about the Nazis at my primary school. No details, of course, we were only children after all, but my teacher explained their goals and motivations. Hitler believed the 'Arian' race to be above the rest, justifying the death of all others, basing it purely on their birthright. I cannot help but compare this to your goals. We were gifted with magic, but that does not make us better. We write with quills and parchment, use books for research and calculations, and the Floo for travel and communication. Do you not find it admirable, that they invented means using logic and science instead of magic?"

"No, darling", Voldemort interrupted his line of questioning, "we are superior to them in every way. We can travel the world in a matter of seconds, have the ability to fly, to cure diseases they deem as incurable. The very essence of an object can be changed through magic. They resorted to secondary means, as our abilities are unreachable for them. You may see them as innocent, kind human beings, but you are wrong. Tell me, Harry, what did those who knew about your abilities do to you?"

The teen physically recoiled at the question. He had avoided talking about his home life, had never opened up about the neglect - not even to Hermione. She suspected something, of course, especially when he asked her for food during the holidays. Yet, she had respected his wishes not to talk about his family. Subtle questions about his well-being had been all there was on the topic. 

"What did your uncle do, darling?", the Dark Lord inquired in an almost soothing voice, which masked the cruelty behind the question.

"You already know the answer, don't you?", Harry mumbled.

"Perhaps."

"I don't want to talk about this. It doesn't matter anyway. Hermione's parents know about her abilities and they love her all the same." Merlin, he sounded like a stubborn child. 

"They do, don't they", Voldemort mused and for a second, Harry thought he agreed with him - he should have known this would never be the case, "so is your friend going home over the holidays?"

The query threw the boy off, as he stared incredulously at the man. Of course, he wanted to answer, though he stopped himself. It was the first time he thought of this, yet... Hermione had spent most of the holidays, such as Easter and Christmas, at Hogwarts, had forgone the traditional celebrations with her parents in favor of Hogwarts'. Despite her passionate enthusiasm when talking about her family's Christmas traditions (We go to church on Boxing Day and then watch Christmas movies for the rest of the day. My grandparents usually come over as well), the girl had not returned home for the following years. She had almost seemed too content to cancel her skiing holiday in their fifth year, after she learned about the injury of Mr. Weasley at the Department of Mysteries. In addition, a majority of her Summer holidays had been spent at either the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. 

"They love her", Harry protested weakly, though something inside his mind whispered, that perhaps there was more to it.

Voldemort's eyes softened as he lightly tugged at Harry's hand. The teen had almost forgotten about the casual, yet somehow intimate skin contact, which made his soul sing in contentment.

"I am sure they do", he comforted him, "yet you cannot deny that there must be some sort of friction between her and her family. Perhaps they don't realize it, perhaps they do, but their relationship will never be the same. While it may be true that our upbringings were at the worse end of the spectrum, it is quite simple: Muggles do not understand magic. They cannot even treat their own children as they deserve, because deep down, they fear the unknown. It makes them unfit to raise magical children."

The realization hit Harry square in the chest, tightening in, until his lungs struggled to inhale. He did not want to believe the Dark Lord, did not want to want to think that Hermione would not tell him of her problems. Alas, denial was not an option, when one was in the company of the Dark Lord. 

"What are you planning to do? I thought you don't care about Muggleborns..." He sounded incredibly exhausted, as though he was much older than his fifteen - almost sixteen - years.

"Do you know what the most powerful wizards on earth have in common, darling?" A sincere smile accompanied the words.

Harry thought of those wizards he knew off, which were considered powerful. Dumbledore, Grindlewald, and Voldemort were the obvious ones, those who wrote history. Perhaps he could count Mad-eye Moody and Sirius as well, seeing as they were renowned Aurors - though the memory of his godfather still felt as though a heavy weight slowly crushed his ribcage. 

"They are all bonkers?", he answered in a weak attempt of humor. 

The man who held his soul did not seem impressed, merely arching an elegant brow. 

"Very funny, darling, but no. All of us share an unimaginable love for magic - we will go any length to ensure it's eternity. It does not matter what our convictions are, concerning Muggles and blood Purity. In the end, all of us merely wish to protect this world. However, I digress. To answer your question: No, I do not care for Muggleborns, though it is for a different reason than their parents. Most of them do not have the same love for the magical world as we do, the reason for it being their families. No matter how they fare at Hogwarts or later in their lives, it all comes back to one crossroad.

"They must choose between their family, their heritage, their childhood, and the magical world. For you and me, the choice was easy, as there is nothing holding us back - no loving home or treasurable memories. However, this is not the case for most witches and wizards growing up in the Muggle world. They are treated as inferior in our world while being estranged from their families. Many choose to neglect their abilities as a consequence, leaving our world.

"That is why I plan to bring magical children into our world at the earliest sign of accidental magic. They will be placed with volunteering families and learn the traditions and customs of the Wizarding World at a much younger age. With time, the bias will be equated."

Voldemort sounded so proud of his plans, of the future he planned to create, that Harry could not help but feel enthusiastic at the prospect of a better future. No other child would have to grow up with unloving relatives, unaware of the reason for their magic. None of them would be called a _freak_ or locked into a cupboard. They would never know starvation and despair, never taste the metallic aroma of blood in the back of their throats.

It was a testament to Voldemort's abilities as a politician, that he knew exactly how to appeal to the boy he had orphaned.

"Think about it, darling", the Dark Lord raved, his eyes gleaming with passion, "we can create a brand new future. One, where there will be no more sorrow, no more death. Together, we can lead the Wizarding World into a new age of prosperity."

It was those words, which brought Harry out of the trance-like state he had been in. This was not a benefactor before him, not a savior - but rather a Dark Lord, a murderer.

"Yet you plan to wage a war and slaughter half the world to achieve the goal. There will be no more death once you are done, because there will be no one left. I wish for a better future, one in which witches and wizards will be safe, no matter their origin, blood, or power. However, I am unwilling to achieve it through the same means as you", he responded sadly.

______________________________

The remainder of breakfast was a quiet affair, with both Harry and Voldemort contemplating the other's standpoints. Afterward, the teen was invited into the Dark Lord's personal study to spend his morning there. He accepted out of a mixture of boredom and the desire to stay in the soothing presence of the man.

Unsurprisingly, the room had green wallpaper - after all, what else could one expect from the Heir of Slytherin. However, it astounded Harry that study was not as meticulously arranged, as he would have anticipated, especially considering Tom Riddle's former status as Head Boy. It appeared as though the Dark Lord took all measures available to keep the house-elf - Mitsy - out of his study.

"I apologize for... this", the man spoke and perhaps it was Harry's imagination that showed him the tinge of red on his cheeks, "I am currently working on legislation regarding Dark magic. It is taking me longer than I would have wished. In addition, I have to crossreference and compare many sources to achieve the best possible result, which is why there are so many books and parchments in here. Make yourself at home."

As it turned out, attempting to reach the plush armchair near the fire proved to be a sport worthy of the Olympics. Harry being who he was, failed spectacularly at not throwing over the stacks of books and parchment. Merely a step into the room, the teen's foot connected with a stack reaching up to his thigh, promptly knocking it over. The following domino effect launched an avalanche of sources across the room, which seemed to burry the lower located notebooks villages and scroll landscapes. 

He did not know how it happened, yet Harry found himself sitting in midst of a whirlwind of parchment seconds later, trying not to be suffocated. His eyes met Voldemort's who looked at him with something akin to surprise, before the Dark Lord burst out laughing. Glaring at him, the teen proceeded to fight his way out of the clutches of the sentient materials. 

"This is not my fault", he stated with a huff. 

"Of course not, darling", the man reassured him, though the toothy grin branded his words lies. 

With a flick of his wand, the parchment and books around Harry rearranged themselves to their previous state. 

"What would you like to read?", Voldemort proceeded to ask, as though his office looked perfectly fine, "Politics, Potions, Defence, Dark Arts, Arithmancy... Etiquette?"

The teen wished he had listened as the possible choices were listed. Unfortunately, he was too captivated by the man's crooked grin. The warmth spreading in his chest had him blush, though he hoped it was not visible.

"Whatever", he mumbled, glancing at his hands.

Seconds later, Harry found himself regretting his words, as he sat in the green armchair, a heavy tome with the name _'The customs of the Noble Houses: A brief summary of proper Etiquette'_ resting in his lap. 

The book was boring, filled with useless knowledge about what fork to use for which course or which glass belonged to which drink. If he had the choice between a double lesson of History of Magic with Professor Binns or this book, he would be unable to choose, which in itself was a shock, as it was common knowledge at Hogwarts, that nothing was less interesting than Binns. 

It was at the fifth chapter _'How to court a Lady from a Noble house'_ that Harry gave up. His hand ran down his face in an attempt to distract himself, his eyes roaming around the room, before focussing on the Dark Lord.

"Voldemort?", he questioned.

The answer was a grumble from behind a stack of books.

"Can I ask you a personal question?", his tone was hesitant.

"Sure." The man pushed the books aside to gaze at Harry.

"Yesterday... you said you were afraid of death. Why?"

There was a surprise in the blood-red eyes. "Why is anyone afraid of anything, Harry? We do not decide what our worst fears are going to be."

"Yet, the experience throughout life shape our dreams, expectations, and fears. My boggart is a dementor. I am scared of the cold, the hopelessness I feel when they are around, while they force me to relive the worst memory of my life over and over. What caused your fear of death?" Harry's admission was spoken with a trembling voice, nervousness filling him at the prospect of sharing the source of his anxiety.

A long time, the Dark Lord did not say anything, his eyes fixating the teen in a calculating way.

Just when he began to wonder, whether the man would ever answer, Voldemort spoke: "You know I grew up in an orphanage in the thirties and forties... It was in London during the Second World War" - Voldemort struggled to continue - "The Nazis bombed London repeatedly and though I was lucky to escape to Hogwarts during the Blitz, it was not the only instance. In the summer of 1942, when I was fifteen, there was another bombing. Being locked into a bunker, while the bombs shake the ground above you... it is not something you forget easily." A strained smile followed, looking more like a grimace than anything else.

Finally, Harry understood - Voldemort's fear of death, the hatred for muggles, for Dumbledore, as well as the desire for power. Tom Riddle had felt powerless, trapped in a war without the means to defend himself. Just like Harry, he had likely clutched his wand in a desperate wish for protection, while knowing he was not allowed to use his magic. So, he had decided to become his own savior. 

Yet, Lord Voldemort was not a misunderstood hero. Once, the boy - Tom Riddle - had been a shaking orphan, seeking refuge from a war in the magical world. Now, he was the Dark Lord - Voldemort - a murderer and a dictator. No matter the childhood and upbringing, nothing could excuse the crimes the man had committed.

Perhaps, Harry mused, Voldemort had never been able to leave behind the horrors of the Second World War.

**NOTE:** **If you wanna spend like 5 minutes reading my one-shot 'Soldier' that would be super cool!!!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clothes Harry wears are from Draco.
> 
> I checked but couldn't find anything about Hermione's Easter hols, so I just said what would fit best with my story.
> 
> I hope you like it, please comment and let me know what you think!  
> Also, do you find the dialogues boring or good? Cause I'm not quite sure if there's too much or too little of that...


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